The Baker's Apprentice: A Novel

r ’s a p p r e e k nti a b ce e h t

o

judith ryan hendricks

-Ann, best Bad Girl For Jo

Bread should be eaten with the eyes closed and the heart open. DA N I E L W I N G

AND

A L A N S C O T T,

The Bread Builders

Contents Epigraph

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part one

3

one Linda LaGardia is about the most annoying human being I’ve…

5

two Mazurka Bars are, as Ellen likes to say, locally world…

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three Shortly after I arrived in Toulouse, Jean-Marc Guillaume asked me…

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four Spring in the Northwest is practically indistinguishable from winter except…

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five Unless you know someone who’s short-listed for the Nobel Peace…

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six In spite of the red-and-green intarsia sweater, or maybe because…

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seven Lit up in the dark, L.A. looks like the vast…

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eight A bad marriage is like the psycho killer in a…

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nine The silence between us fills up the week.

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part two

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ten Crosby, Stills and Nash are getting to the point where…

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eleven With Mac gone, days assume an orderly progression.

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twelve It’s early. The sun is low, the trees casting long…

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thirteen When I get to work, Tyler’s dancing around outside like…

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fourteen He likes going to Rhiannon’s in the morning when he’s…

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fifteen Just when you thought it was safe . . .

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sixteen June is spring, July is summer, August is fall. The…

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seventeen CM’s banging on the door. “Avon calling.”

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part three

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eighteen Now in the morning when we get home, instead of…

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nineteen It’s dark when I get home. There are no lights…

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twenty Christmas night.

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twenty-one At Harrington High School in 1972, there must have been…

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twenty-two I read the letter again, just to be sure I…

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twenty-three It’s six A.M. on March 1, and we’re all waiting…

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twenty-four It’s after eight o’clock when I step out the front…

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twenty-five The familiar brown boxes have sprung up in our living…

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twenty-six In the morning I lie in bed, wondering if Mac…

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Acknowledgments About the Author Other Books by Judith Ryan Hendricks Credits Cover Copyright About the Publisher

bread baker’s life isn’t for everyone. First of all, it’s physically hard. These days the mixing and kneading are mostly done by machine. But at small artisan bakeries like ours, the loaves are still shaped by hand, and that takes a fair amount of muscle. Not to mention dragging fifty-pound sacks of flour, hefting the bowls of the big floor mixers, loading trays of wet dough into the oven, and unloading the finished bread. The hours can be off-putting, unless you’re a night owl to begin with. And even so, it’s not much fun having to leave for work just when a party’s getting cranked up or dragging yourself out of a nice, cozy bed occupied by a warm body that fits perfectly against your own. Then, of course, there’s the money. Or lack of it. Ingredients are cheap enough—flour, water, salt, yeast—but bread is labor intensive. And you can only charge so much for a loaf of bread, even if it does contain hazelnuts from Oregon or imported Kalamata olives. The bottom line is, you have to sell a lot of bread just to break even, and don’t even think about turning a profit unless you’re baking wholesale. At the Queen Street Bakery, we think of it as a loss leader. That,

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and as a service to our loyal customers, who seem to like picking up a loaf of bread at the same place where they have their morning coffee and scone, or their afternoon pastry. I think it’s that sweet little European fantasy of walking home from the neighborhood bakery clutching a still-warm loaf of bread.

·2·

part one

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Seattle, September 1989

inda LaGardia is about the most annoying human being I’ve ever met. Irascible, embittered, humorless, devoid of common courtesy—and that’s on a good day. Fortunately, she’s also totally lacking in imagination, one of those people who seems to go through life with her head down, watching her feet take each plodding step. Fortunately, because that means she’s generally too self-absorbed to really get in anyone’s way. Much as she can’t stand me, most of the time she simply acts like I don’t exist. All through our shift tonight, she’s been singing little tuneless songs under her breath, muttering to herself about her kids, Paige and Ed Jr., and her no-good scumbag of an ex-husband, Ed Sr., who’s been dead now for over six months. I’m standing, she’s sitting at the worktable shaping loaves of cheese bread and dropping them into oiled pans. “Yeah, I went to the doctor yesterday,” she says from out of the blue. Caught off guard, I can’t suppress a chuckle. It’s so totally out of character for her to start a conversation. “Somethin’ funny about that?” “Not about going to the doctor. I just think it’s funny that you want to talk to me about it. I’ve been working here for over a year

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now, and we’ve never had any kind of meaningful dialogue before. That I recall.” “That’s because you’re always runnin’ your mouth or playin’ that god-awful screechin’ music.” I close my eyes. “Oh, right. Now I remember.” “Last time he said my blood pressure’s too high.” “How high?” She waves her hand dismissively. “A hundred and eighty.” “Over what?” “What d’ya mean over what? A hundred-eighty’s what he said.” “Blood pressure is usually two numbers, like one-eighty over oneten or something like that.” “Ahh, who knows. He was throwin’ all kinds of numbers around.” A few minutes later she says, “He wants me to take some tests.” “What kind?” I keep my eyes on the bread in front of me. “Stress test or somethin’.” She detaches the dough hook from one of the Hobarts, carries it to the sink, then hesitates, lost in some internal debate. She turns on the water, then abruptly turns it off. “I don’t guess you’d know what it is?” The tone of voice is so unlike her that I turn around. “What what is?” “Stress test,” she mumbles. She scrubs the dough hook furiously. “Didn’t the doctor tell you?” “ ’Course he didn’t tell me. They never tell ya nothin’ if they can help it.” “They just hook you up to these electrodes—” “Electr—?” She makes a little sputter of alarm. “Does it shock ya?” “No, no. It doesn’t hurt. You just walk on this treadmill and they read your heart rate. It’s not a big deal.” “I figured as much.” She sniffs, embarrassed. “I gotta be there early. Guess you’ll have to handle cleanup yourself. Too bad.” I reach over and turn up the boom box with my knuckles. ·6·

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At five-thirty a.m. the sun is a faint pinkish glow filtered through fog. Linda’s out front, loading banana-cinnamon-swirl bread onto the rack behind the register. The street is still quiet enough that I hear the engine before I see the headlights. The sound is unmistakable, as individual as a fingerprint. A truck. A 1971 Chevy El Camino in need of a tune-up. Mac. My heart and my stomach decide to switch places. I turn, just in time to see the Elky roll up in front of the bakery, unsavory looking as ever, its paint oxidized to a soft ivory that suggests that once upon a time it was white. Only the newly painted right-rear fender gleams like an anchorman’s smile. I thought he wouldn’t be back till the end of the month. I thought . . . well, I thought a lot of things. Two weeks ago in the San Juan Islands, we wrecked a perfectly good friendship by making love for the first time. I sort of thought he’d call me, but he hasn’t. Is he sorry it happened? Am I? What should I say? Should I run out and throw myself on him? Should I be cool? Let him know he can’t take anything for granted? Act like it never happened? I push my hair back and take a deep breath. Be casual. Hi. How are you? I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Then I remember that my hands are covered with wet dough. I wipe them on the towel that hangs from my apron strings and force myself to walk slowly around the end of the counter and out the door. He’s on the curb, reaching inside the truck for something, and when he hears the door, he turns around. Before I have a chance to launch my carefully noncommittal greeting, he picks me up in his arms and crushes me against him till I can’t breathe and don’t particularly care to. After we’ve tried kissing from a number of different angles, he sets me down on the sidewalk. I rearrange my apron and my bunched-up T-shirt, and he laughs as he extricates a few little globs of dough from my hair. ·7·

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“I thought you weren’t coming back till . . . later.” I wish I didn’t sound so breathless. The look he turns on me makes my knees feel jointed at the back, like flamingo legs. “I couldn’t wait that long,” he says. “What time are you off?” “Seven, but—” “I’ll be back then.” “Where are you going?” “Kenny said I could stay with him for a few days till I find a place. I’m going to drop my stuff off there.” He leans over to kiss me again. “And take a cold shower.” Gone again. Linda rolls her eyes ceilingward when I come back inside, rubbing my bare arms from the chilly mist. “Looks like one divorce didn’t learn you nothin’.” “Teach,” I say absently. “It didn’t teach me anything.” I wander back to the work area, drawn by the warmth of the ovens, the perfume of roasting grains hanging in the air like incense. I pull open the heavy door to the top deck. One sheet pan with six loaves of lemon-poppy-seed tea bread is all that remains of our night’s work. They’re not quite done. I set the timer for five minutes and consider the possibility of truth in what I’ve just said. It’s not too late to bail. I could plead temporary insanity, say I’ve reconsidered, and that maybe taking our friendship to the next level wasn’t such a great idea after all. But then I think about all the time we spent together last year. Listening to music and trolling for treasure in used-book stores, me dragging him to old movies. How he took me to the hospital in the middle of the April Fool’s Day blizzard when I had appendicitis, read to me from Gatsby while I recuperated. I think about that night on the ferryboat, standing next to him at the rail while he pointed out the Big Dipper and Boötes, Po·8·

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laris, and Arcturus, and how I felt when he said he was going up to Orcas for the summer. Nope. It may be insanity, but I’m afraid it’s not temporary.

Ellen shows up just before six and dives into her morning routine with frightening efficiency, turning on the espresso machine, unlocking the register and counting the cash into the till, wiping down the counters and cleaning the glass cases. She puts a saucer of milk out in the alley for whatever cats happen past, and a big bowl of water out front for customers’ dogs. She takes a plastic baggie full of goldfish crackers out of her oversized purse and puts it next to the register in case the guy with the parrot comes by this morning. By the time she’s done, the espresso machine is blowing steam and she fills both brew baskets and punches the buttons for two long doubles. She taps her foot to make it brew faster as the aromatic dark liquid streams into the two majolica cups. When the machine clicks off, she hands me one, and takes a slow, breathy sip from the other—her first of about five for the day. She sniffs the rising steam. “Have you thought of any questions for Maggie?” I give her a blank stare. “Who?” “Maggie Stanopolis. Our job applicant. She’s coming in at eight. Did you forget?” “Yes. Oh, damn. Ellen, could you . . . I mean, would you mind if—I sort of made plans for this morning . . .” One dark eyebrow rises questioningly. “Plans?” My face heats up. “Mac’s in town. He’s picking me up at seven.” “I don’t suppose we should let something as frivolous as a job interview interfere with your love life.” I smile weakly. ·9·

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“You’ll have to talk to her at some point. I’m not going to hire her without you meeting her.” She sweeps her wispy black bangs away from her eyes. “Why not? You know a lot more about whether she’s qualified than I do.” “Bakery policy. You’re a partner now; you need to get a handle on the administrative side of things. Besides, it’s not just her qualifications. We know she can do cakes or she wouldn’t have lasted two years at Booker’s. I think it’s important to get a feel for someone.” “Exactly what I’m hoping to do.” “Not him.” She tosses a wet towel at me. “I’ll be interested to see what she can do. I’ve always thought of Booker’s as sort of a factory.” “I don’t know anything about them.” “They do a lot of kiddie cakes—template things like Mickey Mouse and Roger Rabbit and Smurfs. Shotgun cakes—” “What?” “Wedding cakes in a hurry.” She sighs. “Oh, don’t look so pitiful. I’ll call her and tell her we have to push it back an hour—” “One hour?” “What were you planning—a marathon orgy? One hour. I’ll talk to her first, at nine, then you can meet her at ten.”

Mac insists on breakfast at Steve’s Broiler, a Greek dive downtown with feta cheese omelets that would make your old Greek granny rise up from the grave. “We can’t just barge in on CM,” he says, tucking me under his arm in our huge semicircular booth. I lean my head on his shoulder, feeling his hair, still damp from the shower, cool against my cheek. “We’re not barging. I called her and told her. Besides, I thought you couldn’t wait.” “I couldn’t wait two more weeks.” He nibbles my ear. “I can wait an hour. As long as I get to sit next to you and look at you. And · 10 ·

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think about all the things I’m going to do to you in about”—he checks his watch—“fifty-eight minutes and thirteen seconds.” I sit back and study his face for a minute, the high cheekbones, the wide-set gray eyes that can look green in a certain light, the little amber flecks in the irises. It’s a serious face, transformed by his unexpectedly sweet smile. “You could have called,” I say finally. He considers this. “I just decided to come yesterday. I closed up the cottage, packed the truck, and left. Caught the last ferry out last night—” “That’s not what I meant.” “Okay.” He looks innocent. “What did you mean?” “I meant afterward. I didn’t know what to think.” “About what?” “ ‘About what?’ ” I can’t hide my annoyance. “What do you think? About us. About what happened—” “I didn’t have a phone—” “They have pay phones in town, don’t they? It’s not exactly the Arctic Circle. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know how you felt . . .” His expression softens and he looks straight into my eyes. “You didn’t?” I look through the service window into the kitchen where dark, hairy guys are flinging pans and flipping hotcakes and talking loudly in Greek. He waits till I look back at him to say, “You really don’t know how I feel?” “Well . . .” “I thought I was pretty transparent.” He reaches over to smooth some hair off my face, and his hand lingers on my cheek. Just as he leans toward me, the waiter materializes, sets two thick, white plates down in front of us. The omelets are so big, they hang over the sides, brown and crisp around the edges, molten cheese oozing out. He kisses me anyway. “I guess I should have called, but . . .” He · 11 ·

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picks up his fork. “It all felt so right. I guess I assumed you felt the same.” He cuts into the omelet with the side of his fork. “Did I assume too much?” How do men do this? They don’t tell you a damned thing, and then they make you feel silly and guilty for questioning them. “Of course not. But it’s kind of a strange time for me.” He looks at me expectantly. “So the divorce hasn’t gone through yet?” I shake my head. “Soon. When I talked to my lawyer, she was expecting to get an agreement from David’s lawyer any second.” Just the thought of my ex-husband pending is like a wet towel in the face, so I change channels. “Have you heard from your agent?” Mac laughs. “He’s not my agent yet. He hasn’t read the manuscript—in fact, he probably doesn’t even have it. I just mailed it Tuesday. I figure I have to give it five working days—” “Why didn’t you FedEx it?” “Because it weighs six pounds,” he says patiently. “I needed gas money and a deposit for an apartment, and utilities and food—” There are some days when I shouldn’t go outside without duct tape over my mouth. Today is shaping up to be one of them. “The good news is, Rick needs help at Norwegian Woods right now. And Kenny says Sean’s not happy at Bailey’s. Said he was talking about moving over to some new place on Capitol Hill. If he leaves, Harte might let me come back to Bailey’s.” I set down my knife. “Let you? He should be begging you. Nobody goes there on Saturday nights anymore. Well, nobody except a few twenty-two-year-olds who don’t know Bob Dylan from Matt Dillon. They play mostly elevator jazz during the week and top forty on Friday and Saturday. Kenny’s too busy to deal with it and Sean seems to think his main job is hustling the single women.” “Maybe I should give Harte a call.” He spreads a blob of ketchup over his hash browns, and I cringe. “You’re ruining those. They’re going to get soggy.” · 12 ·

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He sighs. “Thank you, Detective Sergeant Morrison of the food police.”

Somehow I manage to find the dead-bolt key and fit it into the lock, while Mac busies himself unfastening the big Navajo silver clip and burying his face in my hair. “God, you smell good.” Through the forest of my hair, the tip of his tongue finds a vulnerable patch of skin. “Too good, in fact. It should probably be illegal.” His breath on my neck makes all the molecules in my body realign, like iron filings to a magnet. I search frantically for the doorknob key. “I believe it constitutes gross fraud and misrepresentation.” When he slips his hands under my jacket, I nearly choke. “Will you stop it and let me open the damn door?” “Ms. Morrison, we have reason to suspect you of smuggling bread under your shirt. I’m afraid we’re going to have to pat you down. Just to be sure.” I finally get the key in the knob and the door gives way and we lurch through. He catches it with one cowboy boot, kicking it shut behind us. The apartment is sunny and still and freezing cold, thanks to CM’s polar-bear constitution, but I have reason to silently bless her. My ever-thoughtful best friend has left the futon open and made up. My jacket falls to the floor and he tugs my flannel shirt out of my jeans. We fumble with each other’s buttons. He’s still muttering. “No bread here, but I think the evidence warrants a full strip search.” The flannel shirt follows the jacket to the floor and I pull him down onto the futon.

In that lingering afterglow that follows a fabulous meal or great sex, I burrow under the comforter, curled up against him, soaking up his heat like a lizard on a hot stone. · 13 ·

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“I won’t have to worry about finding a job,” he says into my hair. “I’ll be dead before the week’s over. Not that I’m complaining, you understand. It’s exactly the way I always hoped to die.” “No, McLeod, you won’t be that lucky. I won’t kill you off.” I drag my fingernails lightly across his stomach. “I’m going to keep you alive and torture you.” Without looking, I can feel his smile. “Oh, please don’t throw me in the brier patch.” The rhythm of his thumb stroking my shoulder is just about to lull me into REM state when I suddenly remember my ten o’clock appointment. Reluctantly I roll away and sit up. “I have to go interview a job applicant.” I look hopefully over my shoulder. “You can stay here and sleep. I won’t be long.” He props himself up on one elbow. “Nah. I need to find an apartment. I don’t think Kenny’s wife was too thrilled to see me this morning. I’ll come back about seven and take you to dinner. Ask CM to come, if you want.”

Maggie Stanopolis says she’s thirty-six, but she looks older. Maybe it’s the industrial-strength foundation a shade or two darker than her natural coloring that cakes in the folds of her skin, giving her face the appearance of old linen that needs pressing. Her drapey blue shirt calls attention to her clear blue eyes. Thick blond hair erupts from dark roots into a startling fountain, secured by a clip on the top of her head. “I know you work at night, so I really appreciate you meeting with me this morning.” She smiles and pushes a three-ring binder at me. “My cake book.” “So why do you want to leave Booker’s?” I ask. “We had . . . I suppose you could call it artistic differences. That and they moved their operation up to Lake Forest Park because rent was cheaper. And I wanted to stay more central. Close to where we live. · 14 ·

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And my husband’s restaurant—maybe you’ve heard of it—Tony’s?” Her words come like ketchup out of a bottle—first slow and hesitant, then quickly in big, splashy globs. Her eyes are in constant motion, resting on mine for only a few seconds before finding another focus. The golden puddle of sun pouring onto the table makes me drowsy. I keep seeing Mac, snuggled under the quilt on my futon, his slow smile, his pale hair against my skin. “On Capitol Hill?” I stifle a yawn and she nods. I haven’t been to Tony’s, and I seem to recall that it’s better known as a yuppie pickup joint than a temple of fine dining. “I’ve heard good things about it,” I lie. A smile hovers briefly without actually landing on her face. “Did you go to school in Seattle?” “Stadium High School, in Tacoma. Northwest Culinary Academy.” “When did you graduate?” “I didn’t . . . finish. But I think my work speaks for itself,” she adds hastily. I scoot the notebook over until it’s directly in front of me and turn back the cover. The first page is a picture of a cake with the words “Margaret Dailey Stanopolis, Cake Designer” done in frosting calligraphy. I flip through page after plastic-sheeted page. Wedding cakes, engagement cakes, baby shower, birthday, anniversary, family reunion, graduation, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Groundhog Day—even a divorce cake, a clever image of a marriage certificate being cut in two with scissors. I’ll have to keep that one in mind. Some have real flowers, some are decked out with sculpted sugar. But the most impressive ones are like pictures painted with frosting—portraits, pictures of diplomas, even one of a Victorian house—looking as if they should be hung on a wall. I look up into her expectant gaze. “They’re beautiful. How long have you been doing this?” · 15 ·

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“Thanks.” She rubs her hands up and down her thighs, leaving tracks on the nap of her sand-washed silk pants. “Two years at Booker’s, and before that about five on my own.” “How do you do the ones that look like paintings?” “I do a sheet of rolled fondant on top, then paint it with artists’ brushes and egg-yolk paints.” “What kind of cakes do you use?” “Booker’s was pretty much into basic chocolate and vanilla butter cake, lemon pound cake. Sometimes cheesecakes. But Ellen said you guys have your own recipes. I can do whatever you like.” She looks at her watch, which annoys me. “Are you in a time crunch?” “I have another appointment at noon.” “Okay. Thanks for coming by. One of us, probably Ellen, w—” “Do you have any idea when you’ll make a decision? Because I really need to secure a position right away.” The bell over the door jangles as two women enter. Tyler, our blue-haired barista, strolls out of the kitchen to wait on them, wiping her hands on her apron, staring blatantly at our table. I close the binder and slide it back to her. “I’m sure it’ll be soon. Maybe tomorrow, but—” “Are you talking to anyone else?” “Not that I know of.” That probably isn’t the cool thing to say, but I’m too tired to lie. “Well, then. I’ll wait to hear from you. Thank you so much.” She thrusts her hand under my nose and I shake it. Then she picks up the binder, holding it against her breasts like a much-loved child, and ducks out the door.

“Where’s Ellen?” I ask Tyler after the women have left. “Dentist. She lost a crown or something. In a sticky bun.” “Ouch.” · 16 ·

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“She said she’d see you later.” “Not till I get some sleep.” She smirks. “That’s not what I heard you were getting.” “Tyler . . .” She makes big eyes at me. “I saw him this morning. Not bad for an old dude. Nice ass, too—” “He’s not old.” She twists a blue spike. “Maybe there’s a younger brother?” “Older. Besides, I think he’s a lawyer.” She pantomimes putting a finger down her throat. “What happened to you and Teddy?” “He’s history. So maybe you could, like, will Mac to me? You know? When you kick?” I smile smugly. “You won’t want him by then. He’ll be all used up.”

I open my eyes in twilight to see a blurry, upside-down face. CM. “What time is it?” I blink. She raises a glass of red wine. “The sun’s over the yardarm.” I push the hair off my face and sit up slowly, letting out a stale breath. “Ugh. Forgot to brush my teeth.” “Better do it quick before Cute Stuff shows up.” The desk lamp is on, casting soft shadows on the wall behind it. I look at my watch. I can’t believe I slept till six. Good thing I showered this morning. I reach my arms toward the ceiling and yawn. “Can you have dinner with us?” “Wish I could. I have to go back to the studio for a meeting. Besides, I don’t think I could stand watching you two paw at each other.” Christine Mayle has been my best friend since third grade. And believe me, it’s not easy being best friends with someone who looks like Celtic royalty—tall; slender; green eyes; long, auburn hair. She’s one of those women who could put on a plastic garbage bag and start a new fashion trend. Once, in high school, she told me that she · 17 ·

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knew she was beautiful and that people were always going to notice her. Since then I’ve watched her accept admiration as her due, without fuss, the way a queen might accept homage from her devoted subjects. It’s an attitude I’ve always admired for its honesty. She sits on the edge of the tub, sipping her wine while I brush my teeth. “So . . . how did it go?” I try to tell her around my toothbrush, but it comes out unintelligible. “That good, huh?” I rinse out my mouth, pull back my hair, and start washing my face with shaving cream. I know it sounds strange, but CM’s always used it and her skin looks like an Estée Lauder ad, so I thought I’d give it a try. “If you really want to know, somehow the whole thing feels weird.” “Weird?” “I was sitting there at breakfast looking at him, and all of a sudden, it was like . . . vertigo. I mean, we used to be friends, and now we’re . . . something else. Another horse of a different color, as my oma used to say. And two weeks”—I turn to look directly at her— “of silence makes me nervous.” “If he was calling you every day, that would make you nervous, too.” She smiles indulgently. “Everything makes you nervous.” She finishes her wine and sets the glass on the vanity. She kicks off her shoes. “Enjoy it, don’t dissect it. Things will work themselves out.” She stands up and slips out of her jeans, hanging them on the hook behind the door. “And now, if you’re through hogging the bathroom, I’m getting in the shower.”

“What did you think of Maggie?” Ellen asks me between sips of espresso. Linda’s in back washing up, and Tyler hasn’t come in yet, so we have a few minutes of privacy. “I don’t know. I guess she’s fine. We don’t exactly have applicants · 18 ·

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lined up for a shot at it, do we?” I stretch my legs out in front of me and rotate my aching feet. “Not really.” “She said two years at Booker’s, five doing cakes freelance. That leaves almost ten years unaccounted for. Did she give you a resumé?” Ellen laughs. “Nobody in this business has a resumé. She told me she was a starving artist till she met Mr. Wonderful. Taking art classes and trying to sell her paintings.” She hesitates. “Did you notice her eye?” “Her eye?” “She had a black eye. It was pretty well camouflaged. Probably a few days old. And it looks like she’s good with the concealer.” Now I feel really stupid. “I didn’t even notice.” “You have to know what to look for. Before Food Bank started picking up the day-olds, I used to take them over to a batteredwomen’s shelter. I saw quite a few women who knew how to use makeup. Maggie’s was just barely a shadow.” “That’s no reason not to hire her—” Ellen shakes her head impatiently. “No. In fact, it may be a good reason to hire her. I just think you and I need to be aware of it. There’s a potential for trouble.” “Like what?” “You know—irate spouse, confrontations in the workplace.” “So what do you suggest?” She shrugs. “I think we should give her a three-month trial. Her book looks good.” She sets down her cup and goes to unlock the door for Tyler, who’s peering in at us, nose smushed against the glass. Ellen hands her a cleanup rag. “Take care of your grease spot on the door.” “Whoa. I’m the barista and the cake decorator, and now I’m the janitor, too.” “You won’t have to worry about the cakes much beyond today,” Ellen says. “We’re hiring Maggie Stanopolis. She’s from—” · 19 ·

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“I know where she’s from.” Tyler gives us her drop-dead look. “Bet she does a great Smurf cake.” Ellen smiles. “Her style is a little different from yours, but I think she’s very talented.” “Her face looks like it got left in the dryer too long. And that skuzzy blond hair. Looks like she’s got a dead animal on her head.” It takes all my self-control not to laugh. “We’re not hiring her to be our poster girl. Besides, I think having blue hair and a safety pin in your ear disqualifies you from commenting on anyone else’s appearance.” Color flames in Tyler’s paste-white cheeks. Her Doc Martens make dull clomping sounds on the rubber matting as she disappears into the work area and then we hear her slamming the cooler doors. “Hey!” Ellen calls after her. “Knock it off unless you can afford to buy us a new Traulsen.” She looks at me. “This could prove interesting.” “I’ll say. Who needs an irate spouse when you have an irate cake decorator?”

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. two .

o azurka Bars are, as Ellen likes to say, locally world famous—a killer combination of thin, flaky crust, then your choice of lemon, chocolate-espresso, apple-raisin, or raspberry filling, and on top the crumble layer with its habitforming, sandy crunch. We sell them not only to our customers, but to cafés and delis and even some grocery stores around the city. Ellen invented them when she lived in New Hampshire, and she brought the recipe with her to Seattle, at first baking them in her apartment and selling them outside movie theaters and down at Seattle Center before Sonics games and every September at the Bumbershoot arts festival. A lot of our customers still remember her fondly as the Mazurka Bar Lady. Production outgrew her tiny apartment a long time ago—one of the reasons she and her former partner Diane bought the bakery— and lately, demand has mushroomed to the point where we’ve had to hire three part-timers to do nothing but Mazurkas. Ellen supervises them closely, and still insists on making the huge batches of filling and topping herself, but Kristen, Susan, and Barb do the crust, the assembly and baking off, the cutting, wrapping, and labeling. They work Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, usually coming in

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around noon, so I rarely see them, but on this particular Monday, we’ve got a large special order for a convention event at the Sheraton, so the gang’s all here when Maggie shows up at eight a.m. for her first day at work. Linda left as usual on the stroke of seven, wary of turning into a pumpkin if she stays one minute over. But I’m still here, and Ellen, Tyler, Jen, and Misha, the morning crew, plus the Mazurka mavens. Maggie insists on shaking hands with everyone, no matter if they’re talking to someone else at the moment or up to their elbows in dishwater or patting out scone dough with floury hands. She smiles directly into their faces, mentioning that her husband is Tony Stanopolis, owner of Tony’s on Capitol Hill. As if that somehow places her in context for us. She seems oblivious to the surreptitiously exchanged glances and rolling of eyes. Tyler has grudgingly agreed to help with the cakes for a couple of weeks, but her demeanor could be generously described as sullen. When Ellen takes Maggie back to show her how the storeroom’s organized, Tyler gives me a fish-eyed stare. “‘Cake designer’? What a joke.” “She’ll be fine. Help her out.” She folds her arms. “Sure. Front door okay?” “Ha-ha, Tyler. Don’t you remember what it was like to be the new kid?” “Yeah, I remember.” She looks at me sideways. “Nobody gave me any breaks.” “Oh, come on. You’re starting to sound like Linda.” While Maggie fills out payroll forms, Ellen comes over to me. “You better get gone. You’re about to fall asleep standing up. Where’s Tyler?” “I don’t know. Probably sulking in the bathroom. What’s with her, anyway?” Ellen shakes her head. “Lots of things, I think. We’re going to have to keep an eye on this.” She lays a gentle hand on my arm. “But · 22 ·

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we can talk later. Go home. Go to bed.” She grins wickedly. “I mean, go to sleep.” “Unfortunately, that’s not an issue at the moment. Mac’s trying to get a job lined up and find an apartment. I haven’t seen him in two days.” Her expression is one of horror. “Two days? No sex for two days? Like, ohmigod!”

Mac and I didn’t spend a lot of time at each other’s residences last year when we were friends. We saw each other at Bailey’s, where he worked as a bartender, or we went places together—cafés, movies, bookstores, coffeehouses. Weather permitting, we were usually outside. Walking in the Market or Pioneer Square, jogging in the parks, or—Mac’s favorite—riding the Washington state ferries. In fact, the only time he was ever inside my house was when I was recovering from my appendectomy. And I never set foot in his place. The subject came up once, and he put me off by saying that it was “kind of like Motel Six.” His new apartment is on the fourth floor of one of Queen Anne’s ugliest buildings. Six stories of prison-green cinder block on Myrick Street, a couple of blocks off Queen Anne Avenue. I show up Saturday about noon in the pouring rain with a bag from Thriftway containing one beautiful, fat filet, two russet potatoes, a head of romaine, fresh tarragon, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, butter, and a loaf of pain de compagne from the bakery. “I’m not sure you’re ready for this,” he says when he opens the door. Motel 6 was perhaps a touch optimistic. The living room is beige and very small. Fortunately, there isn’t a lot of furniture, just an old wing-back chair, a desk, and a straight, wooden chair. A packing box next to the wing back serves as an occasional table, showcasing back issues of Outside magazine, legal pads, pens, and a collection of dirty glasses. · 23 ·

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He follows my gaze. “Try to think of it as minimalist design. What’s in the bag?” “Dinner.” He takes it from me and I follow him into the kitchen, a tiny galley with a two-burner stove, half refrigerator, and sink. The smell of bleach is overpowering. “Sorry,” he says, “but you should have smelled it before.” “Why don’t you open the window?” “It’s painted shut. Also, in case you tunneled in, it’s raining.” I wander back out through the living room and into the bedroom. The bed consists of a box spring on the floor, a mattress on top. Boxes are stacked three deep at the head and along one side next to the wall. The only other furniture is an empty bookcase and a small chest of drawers covered with stacks of spiral bound notebooks. I pick one up. “What are these?” He takes it out of my hand and puts it back on the stack. “Just stuff.” “Why don’t you let me read some of it?” “Because it’s really not that good.” “How about if I promise not to assign a letter grade?” “I’ve heard old English teachers never die. Besides, you’d never be able to decipher my scribbling.” “You’re talking to a woman who’s deciphered hundreds of sophomore essays.” “Wyn—” There’s an impatience in his voice I’ve never heard before. Then he softens. “Later, okay? I’ve got a few published articles, if you just can’t live without reading some of my deathless prose.” “I can live.” He reaches for my hand, but I turn away. “What’s in the boxes?” I squeeze between two precariously balanced towers. “Books.” I run my finger over one of the bookcase shelves. “We’d better · 24 ·

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dust this first. We can put all the fiction together in alphabetical order by author. Then we can arrange the nonfiction by categories. And the books could probably—” “I don’t need my books arranged. Has anyone ever suggested that you might be just the tiniest bit anal?” “It’s not a matter of being anal; it’s a matter of being able to find things.” “I’ve been finding everything for quite a number of years now, thanks. Besides . . .” He puts his hands on my shoulders, causing all those little fluttery things to start doing tricks in my stomach, and points south. Suddenly I forget that I’m annoyed. “I’ve got a much better idea. The place hasn’t even been christened yet.” “You mean you lured me over here with promises of unpacking books and fixing dinner, when all you really wanted . . .” He nuzzles my neck. “By God, Ms. Morrison. You’re far too clever for the likes of me.” As we’re slithering out of our jeans, the change from his pockets goes all over the floor, clanging and pinging and rolling away into corners, but I barely notice it because all my hearing and seeing sensors have been transformed, diverted to touch receptors and I seem to be composed entirely of skin. I don’t even hear myself saying his name, but afterward, I remember that I did. We spend the balance of the gray and quiet afternoon in his narrow bed. Making love, sleeping, listening to the soft staccato of rain against the window. Books tomorrow. Eventually hunger overcomes lust, and we reluctantly peel ourselves apart and out of the rumpled bed, then shower and dress. My hair takes forever to dry because he doesn’t have an industrialstrength dryer like mine. When I emerge from the bathroom, all damp and frizzy, he’s already rattling around in the kitchen. The toolbox has been excavated and the kitchen window pried open a crack. The rain has tapered off to a slow, rhythmic dripping. He even has a boom box, and when we stick the antenna against the · 25 ·

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windowpane, we can pick up KBLU, his favorite local station—“all rhythm, all blues, honey, all the time,” the DJ drawls. “You do have a frying pan?” I pull the lettuce and butter out of the fridge. He hands me an old, beautifully seasoned cast-iron skillet. “Direct from the gourmet department of the Salvation Army Thrift Shop.” He rummages in the cupboard. “Ah. Day-Glo red. My finest bottle. Also my only bottle.” He uncorks the wine and pours it into two coffee mugs and hands one to me. It’s actually not bad. “Remind me never to go camping with you. If this is how you live, I don’t think I want to know your idea of roughing it.” He pushes up his sleeves and chops the potatoes while I put a pot of water on to boil and wash the lettuce. On the radio a sandpaper voice backed by a twangy acoustic guitar asserts that “you can’t never tell what a woman’s got on her mind.” Mac pauses in his search for plates to turn up the volume. “Listen to this. That’s a real oldie. The twenties, I think. Maybe someone like—” “Blind Lemon Jefferson, my man,” the DJ interrupts. “By request for Franklin DuPree, who’s at work tonight down at Pier One. Listen up, Franklin, to the Lemon’s words of wisdom. Now go you and do likewise, my son.” I try to look suitably impressed by the music’s authenticity, while I slice the filet in two horizontally, sprinkle salt in the skillet, and set it over a high flame. It’s a small kitchen, but as I learned in France, size doesn’t matter. The summer after my sophomore year at UCLA, I did a workstudy program at a bakery in Toulouse, and lived with the Guillaumes, the family who owned it. The first time I saw Madame Guillaume’s kitchen, I was astounded by what wasn’t in it. No food processor, no heavy-duty mixer, no electric coffee maker, no toaster, no microwave, no garbage disposal, no dishwasher. Just a big, black gas stove, some copper pots and pans, a few good knives, whisks and · 26 ·

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spoons, a rolling pin, huge ceramic mixing bowls, and not much more than that. I used to love watching her work. She didn’t own a cookbook; she cooked by tradition and instinct. The only recipes she had in written form were scratched in spidery penmanship on paper that was wrinkled and yellowed and as soft as cotton. They had been passed down from her grandmother to her mother and then to her, and she knew them by heart anyway. On Wednesday nights she always made steaks, and once I had them fixed this way, I never really liked charcoal-grilled meat again. When the pan is nearly smoking, I throw the steaks in, searing a salty crust onto both sides. Then I put them on a plate and deglaze the pan with balsamic vinegar, reducing it to a syrup. Mac smashes the potatoes with a giant fork while I add butter and pepper and chopped tarragon to the pan to finish the sauce. In just under twenty minutes, we’re sitting on the floor, using the packing box for a table. “This is incredible. Where’d you learn to do this?” “I got the idea in France. Except the sauce is my own shortcut. Madame Guillaume would just whip up real béarnaise.” He has this way of smiling with just his eyes. “It couldn’t be any better than this.” “Is your mother a good cook?” He’s refilling our coffee mugs with wine, and he doesn’t look up. “Not really. Suzanne was always domestically challenged.” “Nothing wrong with that. She’s an artist, right?” He just nods. “What’s she like?” “I don’t know.” “What do you mean, you don’t know? She’s your mother.” “We never got along.” He breaks his bread into three smaller pieces. Then he puts it down and looks at me. “She’s very . . . attractive. Talented. And strange.” · 27 ·

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“Strange in what way?” “She was never all there after—after my father died. I’ve never been close to her. Haven’t even talked to her in years.” I push my last piece of steak around in the cold sauce. “My relationship with my mother wasn’t so terrific either. For a long time. It’s funny, though. When you think about it. Mothers sort of take the rap for everything, don’t they? I mean, if they’re attentive and loving, they’re smothering. If they’re independent or undemonstrative, they’re cold.” “Sometimes both at once,” he says quietly. “Depends on where you are in the family hierarchy.” “Being an only child, I was the hierarchy. Where were you?” He lays his knife and fork carefully across the plate. “I wasn’t speaking from personal experience. Just general observation.” He gets up and carries our plates into the kitchen.

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. three .

o hortly after I arrived in Toulouse, Jean-Marc Guillaume asked me why I had chosen a bakery for my work-study program. Nineteen years old and full of myself, I told him I was trying to decide if I wanted to be a bread baker. A smile illuminated his coal-dark eyes, and he rubbed the back of one floury hand along his stubbled jawline. Then he said, “Wynter.” Except he pronounced it Weentaire. “. . . you do not choose to bake bread, the bread chooses you.” Apparently the bread took a while to make up its mind about me. It kept quiet through my disappointing careers in real estate and teaching, and one disastrous marriage, but now, at last it has spoken. I can’t imagine doing anything else. That summer in France was a true awakening for me, but I didn’t appreciate exactly what it meant or how much I learned because I was distracted by other things—like hanging out with Jean-Marc’s sister, Sylvie, and her friends, plotting to lose my virginity, sleepwalking through the usual French language and culture classes that I was required to take at the university. At the time, I saw Jean-Marc as a fusty, hard-nosed—although

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undeniably sexy—taskmaster, obsessed with details, too narrowly focused on the minutiae of his craft. Now I find myself doing the same things I laughed at him for—shredding bread in restaurants to examine the crumb, pulling croissants apart to inspect the layers. At the health food store, I’ve gotten odd looks from people who passed by the bulk-foods aisle and noticed me running my hands through the wheatberries, and I’ve caught myself standing sometimes in the predawn stillness at the bakery, just standing and listening to the bread hiss and sing and pop as the hot crust contracts in the cold morning air. I’ve often thought that if I could go back now and do a real apprenticeship with Jean-Marc, how much more I could learn. Since that’s not possible—at least not in the foreseeable future—I try to experiment with different recipes and techniques at work, something that’s a hell of a lot easier since I bought out Diane’s share and became Linda’s boss instead of the other way around. I also read everything I can find on bread and baking, which is so much more than I ever imagined. Like A Brief History of European Breads, by Eleanor Heinz. The book is mostly a history, kind of dry and scholarly, but tucked in between chapters on the evolution of flour mills and the rise of community ovens were a couple of recipes that intrigued me. One of them, la fouace aux noix, or hearth bread with walnuts, intrigued me sufficiently that I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and so tonight, I arrive at work with the book tucked under my arm. Linda reacts predictably with a disgusted snort and a rolling of eyes. “Here we go again.” I smile and say loudly in my cheesiest announcer voice, “That’s right, Linda! It’s time for another episode of Adventures in Baking. With your host, Wynter Morrison.”

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La Fouace aux Noix 1 envelope yeast cup lukewarm water 4 cups unbleached white flour 1/2 cup whole wheat flour 1 tablespoon salt 1 cup lukewarm milk 3/4 cup coarsely chopped walnuts 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened Cornmeal, for dusting 1/3

Dissolve the yeast in warm water. In a large bowl, mix the flours with the salt, make a well in the center, and add the yeast. Add the milk and stir well to make a spongy dough. Mix in the nuts and butter with a hard rubber spatula or your hands. The dough should be quite stiff. Cover with a damp towel and set in a draft-free area to rise for 2 hours. Punch down the dough and knead for 3 to 5 minutes, then form into a ball. Sprinkle a cookie sheet with cornmeal, place the loaf on it, and let rise 15 minutes, then turn the oven on to 425°F. When the oven is hot, slash a cross in the top of the loaf with a razorblade or very sharp knife. Put a pan of hot water on the lowest shelf of the oven, and the bread on the middle shelf. Bake for 30 minutes, then remove the water and turn the oven down to 300°F and bake for 30 minutes more.

Rabelais once wrote, “There is nothing better than warm fouace with grapes and a fresh rosé or mellow Vouvray.” While the dough rises in its crockery bowl and Linda grumbles her way through whole wheat walnut bread, I weigh out the levain, the natural starter that I pulled from the rye chef (one of the mother starters that we always have going in the fridge) last night · 31 ·

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and pour boiling water over the raisins for our pumpernickel-raisin bread. “So what did the doctor say about your stress test?” “What?” She turns off the big Hobart mixer. “I said, what did the doctor say? When you had your stress test?” “He put me on a diet.” Her face grows suddenly puffy and pink, as if she might cry, and her voice takes on overtones of tragedy. “Said I couldn’t have Cheez-Its anymore.” I can’t meet her eyes because I know it’s serious to her and I’m afraid I’ll laugh. “Bad enough that I had to quit smokin’, and now this.” She turns the motor back on without waiting for my reply. God. Life without cigarettes and Cheez-Its. What’s left?

Ellen comes in at five A.M. and throws her purse on one of the chairs, grabs the bottle of window cleaner, and attacks the display cases as if the food smears and fingerprints were left there as premeditated personal insults. Her face is a study in grim determination. I turn on the espresso machine and reach for two cups. “Why are you here so early?” She squats down to wipe the base of the counter, tucking her long, gauzy purple skirt under her butt. “Oh, it’s this Maggie/Tyler thing. They’re driving me crazy, and at this point it’s a very short drive.” She gives herself a boost back to standing and inclines her head toward the oven. “I thought we should talk about it. Is everything under control back there?” I stick my head around the corner of the ovens. “I need to talk to Ellen for a minute,” I say. “Are you okay?” Linda turns from loading bowls and utensils into a sinkful of hot water to give me a look that would fry an onion, as my oma used to say. “Used to do it all myself, just in case you forgot,” she snaps. “A course I’m okay.” · 32 ·

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I grab the loaf of fouace from the cooling rack and beat a strategic retreat. Ellen runs the espresso into latte cups and tops them off with coffee. “Is it that bad?” I tear an end off the bread and hand it to her. Her eyes brighten slightly. “What’s this? Something new?” “La fouace aux noix. Hearth bread with walnuts.” She takes a delicate bite. “Mmm. Good stuff.” Then a not-sodelicate bite. Then she looks at me suspiciously. “How much butter is in this?” “Not too much.” I smile. “A quarter of a pound.” She shakes her head, but doesn’t refuse a second piece. We sit at one of the flea-market tables and eat in silence for a minute. She takes a long, slow sip of her depth charge. “Ooh, that’s better.” She sits up a little straighter in the chair. “So what’s happening on the day shift?” I lean back and prop my right foot up on my left knee. “Tyler’s decided she should’ve been hired as the ‘cake designer.’ She even came up with a slogan. ‘On your special day, shouldn’t your cake be cutting edge?’ ” “What? She hated doing them. All she did was bitch and moan.” “That was before we brought in somebody else and started paying them more money. Also, Maggie has artistic pretensions, and so Tyler suddenly remembers that she’s supposed to be the artist around here. Between her snide comments about Maggie’s work, and Maggie’s lecturing her about the difference between European fondant and rolled fondant, Swiss buttercream and Italian—close your eyes and imagine how that goes over. Also, I can’t count the number of times we’ve now heard that at Booker’s, the cake people never had to do cleanup, so she can’t understand why she’s expected to pick up trash in the café, bus tables, or any of that stuff . . .” Ellen gives me a pleading look. “It’s all incredibly petty stuff, but it starts when Maggie comes in and it goes on all damn day, till Tyler leaves. I think I’ll · 33 ·

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lose my mind. Or kill both of them, whichever comes first. The worst part is, it seems to be contagious. Now Jen’s mad at Tyler because she feels sorry for Maggie, and Misha doesn’t like Maggie because she thinks Tyler should have been offered the job, and on and on . . .” She props her elbows on the table, rests her chin in her hands, looks through her fingers splayed out across her face like prison bars. She breathes in, then out. “And then yesterday afternoon, Maggie did this half sheet for a retirement party, with a picture of the guy on it—it was amazing. Looked like a painting—” “I’d love to watch her do that sometime.” “Try to do it when Tyler’s not around. So anyway, she puts this cake in the refrigerator, and when Tyler goes to get buttercream, she drops a container of sour cream off the top shelf—” “Don’t tell me.” “Right in the middle. Like target practice. Two hours before the woman was coming to pick it up.” “So what happened?” “Maggie had to do another cake, but it wasn’t what they ordered, so I didn’t feel we could charge them for it. The woman was pretty understanding, considering the circumstances, but still, that’s two cakes down the drain.” We look at each other. “Do you think she did it deliberately?” She shrugs. “If I knew that she did, I’d have to fire her. Which I really don’t want to do. She made a pretty good show of apologizing, but . . . This has never happened before in all my years at the bakery. We’ve had people who weren’t crazy about each other, but nothing so intense that they couldn’t work together. I don’t know what to do.” “Well, I know one thing you should do. Take a long weekend off. You look like shit.” She laughs ruefully. “Why, thank you, my dear. I sort of feel like shit. But I can’t take a long weekend.” “Why not?” · 34 ·

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“Because I’m afraid those two might kill each other if there’s nobody standing between them.” “I’ll stand between them.” She pats my hand. “Thanks, but I can’t ask you to do that. Not after working all night.” “I won’t work all night. Linda would be the first to tell you she can do the bread by herself. And it’s just Friday night. I’ll come in Friday morning, and Maggie’s off Saturday. They’re both off Sunday. Tyler’s off Monday and you’re back on Tuesday.” “Are you sure?” She looks hopeful and doubtful at the same time. “Of course. Piece of cake.” No reaction. “Cake, get it?” “Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’m going. It’s too late to change your mind. Oh, and don’t forget to take the bank deposit Friday afternoon.”

Thank God I don’t work days. You can’t even hear the music over the register ringing, the espresso maker blowing steam, people talking, cups and dishes rattling. Not to mention the blender. Whoever invented those damned blended drinks should be stood up against the wall and shot. Maggie strolls in at seven A.M. Friday, two hours before her shift, carrying two giant shopping bags that she proceeds to unload in the back. She gives me an ingratiating smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m here early. I won’t start till nine, but I wanted to bring in these display items.” From the bag she produces four beautiful willow baskets, a metal bowl and small platter painted in the tole style with fruit and flowers, and a gorgeous burl-wood box. It’s an antique tea caddy, she says. By this time everyone in back has gathered around. Tyler is out front, doggedly pulling espresso for a couple of early birds. The sight of her trying not to look the slightest bit interested tugs at me. “We just redesigned Tony’s—my husband’s—restaurant,” she · 35 ·

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adds, just in case anybody’s been vacationing on Pluto for the last three weeks. “I did the whole thing in a Moroccan-Gothic-Spanish pastiche—lots of dark, carved wood, wrought iron, mosaic tiles— it’s wonderful. Incredibly evocative. Anyway, he was going to pitch these things, but I said, oh no, Tony, let me take them to the bakery. They could use some display items.” She looks at me again, a little more tentatively. “I hope you don’t mind.” Much as I hate to admit it, she has a point. The place is pretty funky, but on the other hand, it’s always been this way, and people on the hill seem to like it fine. “You do understand we can’t pay you for—” “Oh, no, I never meant—I just wanted to do it. I think it would perk up the place. The display of our product is such an important part of our marketing strategy—it’s not that the bakery looks bad, of course. I just thought . . .” “Well . . . Go ahead, and we’ll have a look. Let’s just get it done before it gets too busy.” Almost before I’ve finished the sentence, she’s buzzing around arranging scones in two of the baskets, cinnamon rolls and morning buns in the other two, muffins in the metal bowl and on the platter, biscotti in the tea caddy. She rearranges the flowers that Ellen brought in before she left, cutting the sunflower stems down really short and putting them in a fat little butter crock on the case. When she’s finished, I have to admit everything looks more . . . picturesque, I guess. In a Martha Stewart kind of way. Jen and Misha are suitably impressed, and even a few of the customers notice. At a quarter till nine, Myra, who owns Myra’s Beauty Boutique next door, appears with her giant coffee mug. For a few seconds she surveys the room, threading her manicured nails through her long, auburn hair. Of course it’s not really auburn; but then I’ve never · 36 ·

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been sure what her natural color is. It changes with her moods, from sassy blond to exotic blue-black. She makes the mistake of saying to Tyler, “Hey, you guys dressed the place up. It looks cozy.” For her trouble, she gets the evil eye and a terse, “Yeah, just like a Bellevue fern bar.” Since it’s Friday, the Mazurka mavens arrive at noon, adding their two cents’ worth to the mix. “So Darlene says, personally I think Henry is a little bit passive-aggressive, if you get my drift, and I just go, not that it’s any of your business. And then she says . . .” By one o’clock I have a splitting headache. Not to mention that I’m exhausted because I couldn’t sleep last night. After I initial the time cards, hand out the paychecks, count the money, and fill out the deposit slips, I can’t wait to get away. I feel only semi-guilty leaving before clean up—not bad enough to hang around, and I’m happy for the excuse of going to the bank. How does Ellen stand it?

Saturday morning I’m wide awake at five, so I get dressed and go in. “Must be nice working daytimes like regular people,” Linda sniffs. “You know you’d hate having to work with all those people.” For once, she agrees with me. “Yeah. Like those Mazurka morons. You should’ve seen this place when I got here. Crumbs everywhere. Dirty whisks and knives put back with the clean ones. Sticky stuff all over the floor.” She laughs her nasty little laugh. “Those silly twits wouldn’t last five minutes with me around.” “And neither would our customers,” I mutter. “What?” “I said, why don’t you go ahead and leave. I’ll take care of cleanup.” ·

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I’m standing at the deep sink with a few leftover pale gray suds floating on top of the dirty water when Tyler knocks at the door. “Hey, Tyler, how’s it going?” “Just frigging wonderful.” She pushes past me, pulls an apron off the stack, and slips it over her head. It falls almost to her ankles. “I think that’s one of those super-long ones,” I say. “Why don’t we find you a smaller one?” “This is fine.” She picks up a tray of muffins and carries it out to the front. I tag along with a pan of scones, and watch as she slides the tray into the open case. “Why don’t you put those in the metal bowl?” She stands perfectly still for a minute. I can tell she’s contemplating telling me where to stick the muffins. Finally she pulls the tray out, tilts it over the bowl so the muffins slide in like a pile of rocks, sets it on top of the case, and turns a level gaze to me, daring me to say something. I think I should be pissed off, but she looks like one of those awful paintings on velvet, the little kids with the huge, sad eyes and a gleaming teardrop on their faces. “We can’t put them out like that,” I say. “Yeah. Well, too bad Miss Spanish-Morrocan-Gothic-Pastiche isn’t here to fix all my fuckups.” “Tyler, I want you to put it on cruise control today. Maggie’s not here, so just relax. Okay?” She shrugs. “Whatever.” Her eyes darken, and I think she’s about to say something else, but there’s a knock on the door and she goes to let Misha in. Rose comes in next, our weekend-mornings reinforcement. She’s a freshman at UW on full academic scholarship, living at home with her folks on Eighth Street, and she’s a fresh-faced Alice-inWonderland look-alike. With two of her, we could probably dispense with everyone else. She smiles a lot, is a math whiz, and never forgets who ordered what or how much it costs. Normally she just takes orders and presides at the cash register, but in a pinch she’s · 38 ·

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fully capable of making a latte, busing tables, refilling the sugars, half-and-half pitcher, cocoa and cinnamon shakers, even replenishing the trays and baskets of baked goods. The best part is, she doesn’t have to be told what a pinch feels like. By eight-thirty we’re in full crunch mode. Mrs. Gunnerson, who I think must be the oldest living person on Queen Anne Hill, has already made her weekly appearance. She comes in every Saturday morning, always wearing the same black knit pants, blinding fuchsia blouse, and mustard-colored sweater under her green raincoat. Her thin white hair stands up on top of her head in a little topknot, so that she looks sort of like a very colorful candle. She spends at least ten minutes looking at everything in the case, asking what’s in it, and then she says, “Don’t you have any doughnuts?” Every Saturday Rose explains that no, we don’t make doughnuts, but how about a nice blueberry muffin instead? Mrs. Gunnerson always says, “You girls really should learn how to make doughnuts,” but she takes one of the muffins and a cup of hot water and goes to her table by the window—and God help any unsuspecting newcomer who might be seated at her table—and she opens her cavernous black purse and extracts a Constant Comment tea bag and enjoys her breakfast. This morning Delia Rae Johnson, also a longtime regular, although not nearly as old as Mrs. Gunnerson, informs me in a stage whisper that the toilet’s broken, so I have to leave the counter for a quick inspection. To my immense relief, the problem is simply a broken lift chain. Since moving into CM’s old apartment with its persnickety antique toilet, I’ve become one of the country’s foremost experts on futzing with toilet lift chains. The problem with this one is, the break is one of the middle links, which means both pieces of the chain are too short to reach from flapper to trip lever. They have to be reconnected somehow. When I go back to the register to get a paper clip, a blond woman in · 39 ·

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a hot-pink sweatshirt and jeans is talking earnestly to Rose, and I notice the traffic jam of customers backing up out the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Rose is saying, “I don’t have anything under that name. Could it be under a different name?” The woman crosses her arms. “Now why would I put it under anyone’s name but my own?” When Rose sees me, she gives me a nervous smile. “Wyn, could you maybe help me for a second?” “Sure. What’s the problem?” Before Rose can say anything, the woman blurts out, “The problem is, you’ve lost my son’s birthday cake. Seven-year-olds don’t understand that sort of thing very well.” I want to say, Neither do twenty-seven-year-olds, but instead I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m sure it’s in the back. It was probably moved to a different cooler—” “Wyn.” It’s Delia Rae again. “Honey, I know you’re busy, but my mother-in-law is about to go right through her Depends. Is the toilet fixed yet?” “Give me two minutes, Delia. I’m just getting a paper clip—” “A paper clip?” She shakes her hennaed hair. “Honey, this is more urgent than your paperwork. She needs to use the facilities.” “The paper clip is to fix the toilet chain, Delia—” “My son’s party is at eleven-thirty,” the blond woman says. “I have to pick up the balloons, and the bouncing-castle guy is coming at ten-thirty, and I need to get the cake—” “I will fix the toilet!” I announce. My words reverberate in the hush because everyone in the bakery has stopped talking to try to hear what’s happening at the register. I lower my voice. “And then I’ll be right back to find your son’s cake. What name is it under?” “His name is Leigh Adams. That’s L-e-i-g-h, not L-e-e. But my name is Ann Carpenter. I’ve remarried and—” Rather than wait for the entire rehash of All My Children, I bolt for the bathroom. · 40 ·

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Five minutes later Delia’s mother-in-law is barricaded in our bathroom and Tyler and I are ransacking the coolers in back for any trace of a Power Rangers cake. To no avail. Ann Carpenter is trying to look calm while shifting her weight from one foot to the other in front of the cash register. “Mrs. Carpenter,” I begin. “Ms. Carpenter. When I divorced Charlie Adams, I took back my maiden name. Where is the cake?” “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t find—” Her eyes close. “Oh God, no. You can’t do this. My husband wanted to get the cake at Thriftway, but I said, no, we’ll get it at Queen Street. Theirs are the best, and they’re so dependable. That’s exactly what I said. ‘So dependable.’ What am I supposed to do now?” “Ms. Carpenter, I know we have a time problem here, so here’s what I suggest. If you want one of our regular cakes, I can have our cake dec—er—design person do some birthday decoration on it, no charge, of course. Or if you want to buy a ready-made cake at”— I swallow hard—“the grocery store or any other bakery, we’ll be glad to reimbu—” “But it won’t be Power Rangers.” “Unfortunately.” “I can’t believe this.” “I’m so sorry. I feel terrible.” “Not nearly as terrible as my son’s going to feel when I tell him he can’t have his Power Rangers cake. I mean, he’s been talking about it for—” “Mrs. Carpenter, if you want one of our cakes, I should get Tyler working on it right away. It should only take her about thirty minutes or so, max.” “I don’t have time to be running back over here because you lost my order. I’ve got a herd of seven-year-olds showing up at my house in three hours.” · 41 ·

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“I will personally deliver the cake if you’ll just leave me your address and phone number.” “I gave all that information to the woman who took my order.” “Yes, well, the problem is, we have no record of the order. Do you remember who you spoke to?” “Her name was Maggie. She said she specialized in children’s birthday cakes. We had a long discussion about which theme Leigh would like and she even suggested the Power Rangers.” “Okay. I’ll be sure and talk to her about this. She’s not here today—” “Of course not.” “Do you remember what day you ordered the cake?” “Not really. I mean, the last couple of weeks have been crazy.” “I’m sure. Well, if you’ll just write your address and phone number on this piece of paper, I’ll go get Tyler started on the cake.” By the time we close at three P.M. on Saturday, the night shift with Linda is starting to look like a pretty cushy berth.

Everyone, myself most especially, is happy when Ellen comes back from Whidbey looking as relaxed and contented as a honeymooner. That warm, fuzzy feeling lasts until I have to tell her about the case of the missing Power Rangers cake. She confronts Maggie, who flatly denies ever having talked to Ann Carpenter or anyone else about a Power Rangers cake. Ellen sifts through all the back orders on the weekly clipboard and she and I go through the files. Jen and Misha move the desk and crawl around looking for that stray cakeorder form that surely fell on the floor and got scrunched against the wall. Through it all, Tyler shows admirable restraint. No gloating or finger-pointing. No whispering that she told us Maggie would be a problem. She quietly and efficiently goes about her work. On Friday morning when Ellen comes in, she makes our espressos · 42 ·

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wordlessly, then motions me to sit down with her. “I sent Tyler home yesterday. She’s officially suspended for three days without pay.” “Why? What happened?” “Ann Carpenter called yesterday. She actually called to say thanks for the way you handled the mix-up. But she happened to mention that she looked on her calendar and saw the note from the day she ordered the cake. It was the twenty-third. Which was a Saturday. Maggie doesn’t work on Saturday . . .” “But Tyler does.” She nods. “Yep.” “What did she say when you asked her about it?” “She denied everything. You know, righteous indignation, persecution of the martyr, et cetera. I don’t know what to do about her.” She wipes her hands on her black knit pants. “Well, at least we know now why certain species eat their young.” “I hate to let her go, but we can’t be looking over her shoulder every minute.” “She’s been here what—two years?” “Almost. We got her through a friend of mine who’s a guidance counselor at Queen Anne High. Her mother left the family—Tyler and her sister, Tate, and their dad. Decided she didn’t want to do the domestic thing anymore. I think she went back to school or something. In Wyoming. Or was it Montana?” She gets up and slits open a new bag of espresso beans and empties it into the grinder. “Tyler and Tate—kind of interesting names to give your daughters.” “Anyway, Tyler was a cheerleader and honor student, but she quit all her activities, her grades were slipping, and she was hanging with a bad crowd. Fortunately, Sandra was able to get her into a work-study program and she graduated last June by the skin of her teeth. She’s been full-time since then, and she’s a good worker. I really like her, but she has all these issues.” · 43 ·

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“Where’s her sister?” “She’s at the U. Still lives at home. I think she and Tyler are pretty close, but, you know, Tate has her own life.” “Isn’t she taking art classes?” “Tyler?” She shakes her head. “She dropped out last semester.” “So she’s not doing anything except working here?” Ellen laughs. “I suppose one could do worse.” “You know what I mean, just being a barista’s got to be sort of boring for someone who used to be an overachiever.” “Yeah, I know. Maybe that’s the problem. But she kept saying she hated doing the cakes. I had no idea she’d get so territorial about it.” I dunk my biscotti in the tiny cup and stir it around absently till the end dissolves into mushy crumbs. “You think she’ll come back?” She shrugs. “I hope so, but I really don’t know where her head is right now.”

The Adler house on Phinney Ridge is a nondescript, pale blue craftsman bungalow. The front yard is essence of Pacific Rim, an obvious labor of love for somebody. Mostly evergreens, including some meticulously pruned and shaped cypress, a few rhododendron, and in isolated spots some bronze chrysanthemums poke their heads out. The overall effect is contemplative, like a Japanese temple garden. Whereas the music blasting out the open windows is anything but contemplative, the kind of heavy-metal stuff that Mac calls head-banging music. Not surprisingly no one answers when I ring the doorbell, so I follow a trail of gray stepping stones around to the backyard and peer through a knothole in the wooden gate. There’s a flagstone patio, a wooden chaise lounge with bright yellow cushions, a small, bathing-suited form stretched over it, rigid, like a sausage on a grill. Tyler. · 44 ·

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I can see even from here that, instead of relaxing in the warm autumn sun, her whole body is tensed, not so much getting a tan as daring the sun to burn her. At the sound of the gate, she sits up abruptly. When she sees me she lies back down. “What do you want?” “I just thought I’d come see how you were doing.” “Well, now that you’ve seen, you can leave the same way you got in.” I slide into a folding wooden patio chair. “George Kennedy, Riders of the Rio Grande?” She pushes up the giant black sunglasses that make her look like a blue-haired fly, and glares at me. “What?” “That line. It came from some cowboy movie.” “So what?” “Tyler, I want to ask you something.” “Let’s see. Would it have anything to do with Power Rangers?” “Well, you—” “I love the way everyone just assumes that it was me that talked to her.” “Was it?” “Why bother asking? You guys already made up your minds. Had to be me. My butt’s outta there.” “It’s only a suspension. Ellen didn’t fire you.” “Might as well have. She will next time.” “Is there going to be a next time?” She crosses her arms over her flat little chest. “Ellen and I both really want you to stay at the bakery—” “Then get rid of her.” “You know we can’t do that. We need a cake de—person.” “So what am I? Dog meat?” “No, and you do great cakes, but you kept saying you didn’t want—” · 45 ·

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“Well, I’ve changed my mind. So get rid of her and I’ll do the cakes.” “We can’t fire her.” “Why not?” “First of all, she’s doing a good job.” I scoot to the edge of the chair. “Can’t you just verbalize what it is about her that upsets you?” “Verbalize? That is like so L.A.” I sigh. “You know what I mean. Tell me. You have to have a reason.” “She’s a bitch.” “I need you to be a little more specific. If there’s an actual problem, we can work on it.” She sits up, crossing her legs Indian style, and turns to me. “Okay, fine. Here it is. She just walked in and took over, started bossing everybody around. Redecorating the place. She’s got this attitude. Like she’s too good to bus tables or do prep stuff. Miss Hot Shit Artiste cake designer, making more money than anyone—” “How do you know how much she makes? Did she tell you?” “No, but she said it was ‘substantial.’ A big, fat increase from Booker’s. I’ve been here for two years and I’m still slinging espresso. How come nobody offered me that job? I could’ve—” “Unless I’m hallucinating, I remember at least three occasions when Ellen asked you to do cakes, and you didn’t want—” “Well, duh. Not like that. Not when I was only getting paid to work the counter.” “You didn’t even ask. You knew we were interviewing. Why didn’t you say something?” “It wouldn’t have done any good. You guys all think I’m an idiot just because I have blue hair and I’m not some little yuppie princess.” I shake my head and clamp my teeth firmly on my tongue. “You know that’s not true.” “No I don’t.” · 46 ·

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“Look, can’t you see how insecure Maggie is? She needs to make herself feel important—” “Am I supposed to care about her psycho poop?” I watch the sun glint on the iridescent green head of a hummingbird delving into a pink trumpet-vine blossom. “Have you talked to anyone about this?” “Like who?” “I don’t know. Maybe Tate?” She looks straight ahead, then, “She’s in Montana.” “With your mom?” She barely nods. I nibble on a jagged cuticle. “When do you think she’ll be coming home?” “No idea.” I stand up. “Well, Tyler . . . I don’t know what else to say. Are you planning to come back?” A shrug. “Let me know, okay?”

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. four .

o pring in the Northwest is practically indistinguishable from winter except that there are more flowers. Summer is moody and coy and not entirely certain if she wants to stay or go. Not to mention that all the tourists hit town en route to the islands or to Alaska on a big, white cruise ship. Winter is . . . well, winter. Fall is definitely the best season—golden days and blue skies, warm afternoons and cool nights and the smell of wood smoke. And fall in Seattle with Mac—it doesn’t get any closer to perfection, at least not in this lifetime. Before I even notice it, I forget all the weirdness and my misgivings and I’m walking around in that haze of stunned gratitude and self-absorption that envelops you when you’re absolutely crackers over someone. We do all the same things we did last year, but the world seems to be playing in Technicolor instead of black and white. When he touches my arm to point out a golden eagle at Discovery Park, I shudder lightly with desire. Long walks along the waterfront—yes, it rains and we get soaked, but so what? We go home and warm up in bed. Bargain movie matinees, cheapie concerts and films at the University of Washington, cruising used-book bookstores. We hit every ice-cream place in town, conducting our own taste

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tests. We jog along the waterfront. We ride the ferries to Bainbridge, Vashon, Bremerton. The destination never matters; the object is simply to be on the water. Sometimes we take long drives while I give him shit about emissions standards for trucks. In spite of pollution guilt, I secretly love riding in the Elky. No matter where we go, somebody wants to strike up a conversation about it, what year it is, whether it’s a 454 or Turbo Jet 400. Mac isn’t really a gearhead, though. His feelings about vehicles are limited to a certain loyalty to the Elky, almost the way he might feel about an old, favorite horse. At Snoqualmie Falls early one Sunday morning, we stand silent on the observation deck watching the water plunge over the cliff and thunder into the gorge below. We splurge on overpriced pancakes in the rustic-chic Salish Lodge, and sit there for an hour after we’re through, arguing about the Mariners and the Dodgers. We hike the trails on the flanks of Mount Rainier to stare at the changing leaves, wander mutely through the green cathedrals of rain forest on the Olympic Peninsula. We eat hamburgers on the deck at Green Lake Jake’s, watching the skaters and cyclists and families with kids and dogs congregate around Green Lake in the cool, sunny afternoons. Sometimes there’s a steel-drum band playing over by the bathhouse and it feels like we’re on vacation. We hold hands and stare at each other and drink beer and it’s almost possible to forget that winter’s early darkness is coming on.

Because the bakery doesn’t sell bread on Sunday or Monday, I’m off on Saturday and Sunday nights. I go to Bailey’s, hang out there reading books and drinking wine. Then, after closing, sometimes Kenny’s wife, Roz, comes over, sometimes CM shows up, and we all go out for pizza or Thai food or Chinese noodles at one or the other of the late-night places. · 49 ·

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Mac and Kenny know most of the other bartenders, so they always send us a bottle of wine or comp a round of drinks, and we eat great food and laugh and talk until they throw us out. Then I go home with Mac and we make love, or sometimes, if we’re too tired, we just fall asleep spooned up together. When I open my eyes in the gray half-light, we’re already a tangle of arms and legs and soft, faded blankets. CM finally says, “Why don’t you just give him a key?,” so I do, and when she’s out of town, he stays at our place, going to sleep after I leave for work at eleven. In the morning when I get home, he might be drinking coffee by the window or propped up in bed reading. Or he might be asleep, only waking up when I come in. I undress, slip under the comforter next to him, and the bed is warm from his heat and it smells of him, like the woods, and the very first touch of his skin on mine steals my breath away, like jumping into icy water. He always holds me till I fall asleep, and he leaves so quietly that I never know. I just wake up at three and he’s gone. I like that—not having to watch him leave.

When Linda announces her retirement, it’s cause for ecstatic rejoicing at the Queen Street Bakery. However, even before the exclamations of glee fade into silence, Ellen and I look at each other and tacitly acknowledge that whatever personal feelings we may have about her, the fact is, she’s a warm body. One who knows how to make bread. One who hasn’t missed but about a half dozen shifts in the last twenty years. One who’s going to have to be replaced.

“Are we going to have a retirement party?” It’s four P.M. and the bakery is officially closed, the shades on the · 50 ·

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front windows and doors pulled down. I’m sitting cross-legged on top of one of the café tables while Ellen tallies up the day’s receipts. “I don’t see how we can get out of it,” she says. “We have to at least offer. She’s been here so long.” “Good luck getting anyone to come.” “We’ll have it right after her shift, so the morning people will be here. It doesn’t need to be elaborate, just some soft drinks, coffee, tea, a cake.” “I can’t picture her retired. She won’t have anybody to harass. What’s she going to do?” “She told me she was going to go stay with her sister for a while.” “She has a sister?” “Somewhere in Idaho. Sandpoint or something.” “How nice. Maybe she’ll meet an attractive bull moose and set up housekeeping.” Ellen guffaws in spite of herself. “Meanwhile . . .” She tips back the dregs of her last espresso. “I guess we need to get an ad ready for the Sunday classifieds. I think the deadline is Thursday morning at ten.” “When’s her last day?” “Two weeks from yesterday, whatever that is.” “Doesn’t give us much time.” “You know . . .” She looks at me speculatively. “We don’t have tons of cash right now. It would be really nice if we could save some of the money that would normally go to Linda’s salary. How would you feel about taking on an apprentice? Can you teach somebody and make bread, too?” “I guess. Worst-case scenario is if it doesn’t work, we find somebody with experience.” “Good. I’ll tell Tyler it’s okay with you.” I do a double take. “What?” Ellen looks embarrassed and pleading at the same time. “She · 51 ·

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wants to try it. She actually came to me and asked if she could learn ‘the bread thing.’ ” I close my eyes. “You don’t have to agree.” She sighs. “But it would be the perfect solution.” “I don’t know, Ellen. Bread making is—” “I mean, it gets her out of direct conflict with Maggie. She already works here, so she knows how we operate and where everything is . . .” “I’m afraid she’ll get bored.” “She’s already bored. She needs something new to distract her.” “It’s hard work, and doesn’t she like to do the club scene at night?” “I think she really looks up to you.” “That’s because I’m eight inches taller than she is.” “No, really, she does. Can’t you just give her a try? If we don’t do something, I don’t think she’ll be with us much longer.”

While the idea of an apprentice was one thing, the reality is something else. I’ve never actually had an assistant before. As for training, well, I did teach high school, but that was my job. I wasn’t trying to do a job plus on the side teach somebody else how to do it. Now I have to take the time to explain things and answer questions for Tyler, who has no experience with bread and clearly has other things on her mind. Every time I look up, she’s either staring off into space, probably spinning baroque revenge fantasies about Maggie, or she’s gazing at me with this wide-eyed, what-do-we-do-now eagerness. It’s hard to say which is more irritating. She’s also decided it’s cool to call me “boss” and nothing I say will dissuade her. ·

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One night in her second week on the job, she comes in right behind me and goes straight to the bathroom. At first I’m too busy getting dough out of the cooler to think about it, but after a few minutes I realize she’s still in there. I go out and knock on the door. “Tyler? You okay?” “Be right there, Boss.” “Are you sick?” “Nope.” Then my nose catches the distinctively cloying smell of marijuana. “Tyler, open the door, right now.” I hear the toilet flush and then the faucet running. She opens the door, but avoids looking at me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” “I threw it away.” Her voice is squeaky, like a cartoon mouse. “I didn’t take any. Not even one little toke. Want to smell my breath?” “Not particularly.” She mumbles a half-assed apology, runs a nervous hand through the blue spikes. “I don’t care what you do on your own time, but we’re not paying you to get high and stare into the ozone. How do you expect to learn anything about making bread when you’re stoned? Not to mention the fact that we’re working with hot ovens and sharp knives. It’s dangerous.” Her mouth draws into a thin, tight line. “I said I’m sorry. What else d’you want me to do—put a broom up my ass and sweep the floor?” I chew on the inside of my cheek while I fantasize about swatting her skinny butt with the wooden bread peel. “I didn’t ask for you, you know. I wanted to hire a professional. You’re the one who said you wanted to learn to bake bread. Or was that a lie, too?” She’s staring down, seemingly fascinated by her black Doc Martens. A shiny round spot appears on one of the toes. Then one · 53 ·

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on the floor. It takes me a few seconds to realize that they’re tears. “Tyler . . .” I stop short of apologizing, but I feel like a monster. God, why can’t I just work alone? “Tell me one thing, okay? What do you want?” She swipes a hand across her eyes and chokes out, “What?” “I want you to tell me what you’d like to do. Do you want to work at the bakery at all?” “Yes.” “I know it’s not easy being on the night shift, it sort of puts a crimp in your social life—” She makes a funny little sputtering noise. “What social life?” “Would you rather work days?” I know I’m a terrible person, but I’m hoping she says yes. “No.” She swallows a couple of times, and finally looks directly at me. “I want to make bread. Like you.” I let out a deep sigh. “Then we’re going to have to come to an understanding of how things are going to be. I can’t work with someone I have to baby-sit.” She slinks behind me, back to the work area. “Here.” I hand her the dough-encrusted hook from the floor mixer. “Clean that off—” “I’m sick of cleaning shit off,” she says. “I want to make bread. I’m not stupid. How would you like to make espresso and put muffins on plates for eight hours a day? Just give me a chance. Let me do something besides clean the frigging dough hook and measure the flour. A monkey could do that.” “You probably don’t want to hear this, but when I was your age, I worked in a boulangerie one summer, and you know what they let me do? Wash the equipment. Weigh ingredients. Put the bread out on the shelves. And watch the bakers. Towards the end I got a bucket of dough to practice kneading and shaping, and then Jean-Marc would bake my loaves off and point out to me all the ways they were · 54 ·

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inferior. The whole summer I was there, I never laid a finger on any dough that was destined to be sold as bread.” For a minute she’s quiet. “So you mean I can’t do anything but watch you for three months?” “I didn’t say that. But you still have to do your part of the prep and cleanup. And you have to do what I ask you to do.” I attempt a persuasive smile. “Me boss, you apprentice.” She looks at the ceiling. “Does that mean I have to laugh at your jokes?” “Yes. Absolutely. Look, let’s try this: Starting tomorrow night, your job also includes doing one bread a week on your own. I mean one loaf. I’ll give you time to do it during the night. I want you to do it first by the direct method, with commercial yeast, then try making it with a sponge. Then a starter. I’ll answer questions if you need me, but basically you’re on your own. Tomorrow night I’ll give you a recipe to use for a basic white country bread.” “Okay.” Her enthusiasm is underwhelming. I start to turn away, but she says, “Are you going to tell Ellen?” I shake my head. “She doesn’t care how we set it up.” Her face flushes. “I mean, about the dope.” “Oh.” I’d almost forgotten. “Well . . . that depends.” I dredge up my classroom-discipline voice. “If you promise me it won’t happen again, we’ll call it a temporary aberration and forget the whole thing.” “I promise.”

I love Thanksgiving. It’s the only American holiday dedicated solely to the preparation and consumption of food. When I was a kid we always went to my oma’s town house in San Francisco, along with the few old aunts who were still alive and · 55 ·

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creaking around, a distant cousin or two, and Mr. Lewis, the crotchety bachelor who used to work with my opa. Dinner was very formal, with starched white linens, crystal goblets, and all kinds of silverware that I never knew what to do with, and salt cellars and finger bowls and six courses. But I never minded. The weather was unfailingly wet and cold, so it wasn’t as if you could go out and play, and I loved spending all day Wednesday with my mother and my oma in the big, warm kitchen. Ironing and folding the napkins was my first chore, then setting the table with the gold-rimmed plates. I loved the juggling of things from oven to stove to oven to refrigerator, the stirring and the tasting, listening to the family gossip. This Thanksgiving Day comes at the tail end of a solid month of rain. CM and I have invited a few people for dinner—Mac, Kenny, and Roz. In a sudden burst of expansive goodwill, I’d invited Tyler to come, but she said she was going to San Francisco. It surprised me. “What are you going down there for?” Her expression fell somewhere between boredom and annoyance. “My dad,” she said. “He’s getting married.” “That’s kind of exciting. Is this somebody he’s known for a while?” She shrugs. “I just met her in September.” “So, are they going to live down there?” A sigh. “She’s moving in with us.” “What’s she like?” Tyler scooped toasted hazelnuts into the bowl of the small Hobart. “Betty Crocker.” When she saw my puzzled look, she added, “A house bunny. You know—tuna casserole on the table every night at six o’clock.” My first thought was that Tyler’s dad was probably primed and ready for a house bunny. My second thought was that Tyler obviously was not. · 56 ·

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·

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I’m doing most of the cooking for Thanksgiving dinner. CM’s good at chopping things and cleaning up, but other than that, she’s pretty much a culinary washout. Mostly she keeps the fire going and hangs out in the kitchen as self-appointed cheerleader and supervisory staff. Mac shows up at noon with six bottles of wine and a couple of tapes. CM scans the bottles. “Ooh, Côtes du Rhone. Mmm, Alsatian Riesling. Good job, Barman!” I should be used to this by now, but I can’t quite squelch a prickle of annoyance at the way he smiles and stands up a bit straighter, basking in the glow of her approval. They load the Riesling into the refrigerator. “Hey, don’t take up all the room,” I grouse. “I need someplace for the salad and the mousse.” A few minutes later the buzzer squawks again, and our tiny foyer is suddenly full of noise and wet coats and dripping umbrellas. Under the banner “Invite an Orphan Home for Thanksgiving,” Roz and Kenny have asked if they can bring a friend of theirs. Or at least that’s the official story. Steve Grimaldi is a tall, buffed-out bus driver with gorgeous dark eyes. I remember that he went with us to Hong Chow’s Noodle Parlor one night after Bailey’s closed, and I’m pretty sure he wangled this invitation so he could see CM again. I nudge her with my elbow as we stand at the sink together. “Pretty cute, n’est-ce pas?” “Well, at least we have an even number of boys and girls,” she says with a neutral smile. From the living room I hear the muted roar of a football crowd and the hyper tones of the pumped-up announcer. Roz appears with a casserole of scalloped potatoes. “It smells wonderful in here. Just the way Thanksgiving should smell.” She looks radiant in her gray · 57 ·

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jumper and wine-colored turtleneck, her dark hair brushed and shining, little strands of it haloed around her face by static electricity. I don’t recall ever seeing her with makeup on before. “Where do you want this casserole and what can I do?” “You can just set it on the stove.” CM smiles. “My personal chef has everything under control, so there’s not much to do. What are the guys up to?” Roz makes a face. “Football. In a few minutes they’ll be sniffing each other and marking their territory.” “Guess we’ll have to party without them.” CM reaches in the fridge for a bottle of champagne while I grab three glasses. “Just a teensy bit for me,” Roz says, holding her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. We both look at her in surprise, and she blushes. “I guess I’m not supposed to say anything till we make the official announcement, but I’m pregnant.” “Like omigod!” CM and I sandwich her between us in a hug. “That is so awesome! Congratulations. Oops.” CM licks champagne off her fingers as it foams over the rim of the glass. “We’ll have to imbibe more, then. In your honor, of course.” “Please act surprised when Kenny makes the announcement. He’s so excited.” We touch our glasses together, and whisper impatient questions. “How far along are you? Do you know the sex? Have you thought of any names?” “I’m due in May,” she says, “and I don’t know . . . well, clinically, I don’t know. They can’t tell the sex until twenty weeks, but I just have a feeling it’s a girl.” CM grins. “A toast—to the baby woman!”

Although cooking isn’t her forte, CM sets a beautiful table, hauling out her grandmother’s rose-patterned china, the crystal she bought · 58 ·

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in Vienna, and her mismatched silver, collected on her travels from antiques shops across the country. In place of flowers there’s a basket filled with bright leaves, nuts, pinecones, mahogany-colored buckeyes, and dried sweet-gum balls. While the rolls warm in the oven, Roz tosses the salad, I whip cream for the pumpkin mousse, and CM ransacks drawers for serving pieces and trivets for the hot dishes. We arrange the food buffet style on the desk, and pour the wine while the men sit glued to the television, popping up every few minutes to cast doubt on the lineage of the referees or high-five each other. We pause in our labors to study them. “And I thought all they did for fun was fart,” CM deadpans. Roz purses her lips thoughtfully. “No, my dear. As every married woman knows, that falls under the heading of foreplay.” When we’re all at the table, plates heaped with turkey and dressing and my oma’s giblet gravy, scalloped potatoes, romano beans with toasted almonds, spinach salad, and homemade yeast rolls, Kenny says, “I guess it’s corny, but I’d like to say what I’m thankful for.” He picks up his glass. “Great friends, great food.” He turns to Roz, and I could swear his contacts are fogging up. “And my beautiful wife, Rosalind, who is about to make me a daddy.” While everyone is exclaiming and clapping and shaking Kenny’s hand and jumping up to hug Roz in a pantomime of surprise, I watch that familiar neutral expression replace the surprise on Mac’s face. Then he recovers. “So you really can teach an old dog new tricks.” Grinning, he slaps Kenny on the back, kisses Roz.

After seconds—in some cases, thirds—after pumpkin mousse and coffee, when we’re sitting around in a sated stupor nursing our brandy and finger-painting in the melted whipping cream, Mac puts · 59 ·

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on one of his tapes, and we watch the afternoon sink into earlyevening darkness, lights winking on down the hill. Steve and Mac compare rock-climbing escapades. CM describes her latest dance project, based on the caryatids. Kenny, who grew up on a farm, grosses us out by describing how his father killed their Thanksgiving turkey every year, and when Roz gives him the Oh, honey, not that story, he asserts that if everyone had to kill their own food, there’d be more vegetarians. Steve stirs everything up with his “I’m a recovering Catholic” comment—Roz is devout, Kenny is simply Irish. Steve touts the mellow vibes of Zen and Kenny scoffs at “religion lite.” Mac shocks all of us with the revelation that he was an altar boy. I mostly sit listening. Watching Mac. Noticing how different he is in a group. More . . . I don’t know. Convivial? Exuberant? He does the just-one-of-the-guys thing very well. But it seems hollow to me.

The first Saturday in December Mac is up on Orcas Island helping Rick Bensinger install a shower in his cottage. CM is out to dinner with Steve Grimaldi. I have a glass of wine at Bailey’s around seventhirty, but without Mac, the place could be any other bar on a Saturday night—crowded, overheated, too noisy to concentrate on my book. So I trudge back up the hill in the dark, pelted by rain, long scarf wrapped around my neck and drawn up over my nose. All the shops and some of the houses are decorated for Christmas. Most of the windows in our building are outlined in lights, red and green for Christmas, blue and white for Hanukkuh. By eightthirty I’m taking comfort in a blazing fire, hot chocolate, and hazelnut-cornmeal biscotti. I curl up on the couch, surrounded by pillows, ecstatic to find an Audrey Hepburn film festival on one of the movie channels. · 60 ·

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Just at the point in Two for the Road where she comes back to Albert Finney after a night of illicit adventure, and all he says is, “Thank God,” the front door opens and CM walks in. I look at my watch. “What are you doing home?” She hangs up her coat, kicks off her shoes, and inserts herself into my nest of pillows, tucking her legs under the blanket next to mine. She picks up my mug, and sniffs. “Mmm. Hot chocolate. Is there any more?” “On the stove. What happened? Was it ghastly?” “No.” She takes the last biscotti on the plate and gnaws on it. “Not ghastly. Just . . . I felt like I was sleep walking.” She gets up and goes into the kitchen, returning with her own mug of cocoa. She repositions herself on the couch and takes a sip. “He thought the caryatids were insects.” I laugh, but she doesn’t. “Don’t you find that depressing?” “Actually . . .” I hit the power button on the remote and the TV goes black. “I think it’s hilarious.” “That’s because you weren’t trying to have a conversation with him.” She stares thoughtfully into her hot chocolate. “I guess I’ve never really been very smart about men.” “Show me a female who has and I’ll show you a black-widow spider.” She doesn’t even smile. “I’m serious. What if my mother was right?” “About what?” “About everything. Love. Marriage and babies. My aunt Connie who fell down the basement stairs and laid there, for three days, till the yardman found her.” “What the hell are you talking about?” “She was the family old maid.” “Stop it! You’re not old and you’re sure as hell not a maid.” Finally, a grudging little chuckle. She nestles into the pillows and · 61 ·

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pulls the blanket up to her chest. “The problem is, I want it all. I want to dance and travel and then I want to come home to somebody wonderful. But they won’t let you.” “Who’s ‘they’?” “Men. It’s always an either/or thing with them. They want you to give up everything else to get that little bit of warmth. It’s not worth it.” I turn myself around and sit cross-legged facing her. “But this was a first date. He wasn’t getting into the dancing/traveling/coming home thing yet, was he?” “No.” She sighs. “But then, he wasn’t wonderful, either.” She picks up the remote and clicks the tube back on just in time for the end of the movie. Albert Finney looks at Audrey Hepburn and says, “Bitch.” She smiles her glorious smile and says, “Bastard.”

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. five .

o nless you know someone who’s short-listed for the Nobel Peace Prize or about to go into labor, a phone call at four A.M. can only be bad news. But I’m not thinking about that when I first hear Dorian the duck phone quacking obnoxiously. I’m cursing myself for forgetting to unplug him. I’m thinking that whoever is waking me up at this ungodly hour on my day off better have a damn good reason. She does. “Wyn?” “Mom?” I push myself into a sitting position, shivering in the cold darkness. The living room smells of the ashes from last night’s fire. “What’s wrong?” “It’s Richard.” Her voice is small and sounds very far away. “He’s had a heart attack. But he’s all right,” she adds quickly. “He’s at Encino Medical Center. That’s where I am. I’m sorry to wake you up.” Now I’m fully, wide-eyed, hair-raisingly awake. “Mom, for God’s sake, don’t worry about that. Tell me what happened. Are you okay? You want me to come?” Even as I’m saying it, I know it’s the wrong thing. I should have just said I’d be there on the first flight this morning.

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“No, it’s okay. I’m fine. And he’s stable. I guess I should have waited till later to call you . . . I just wanted to hear your voice.” That about does it for me. All that’s keeping me from bawling like a baby is the knowledge that the last thing she needs with her husband in the ICU is a hysterical daughter. “Tell me what happened.” “Well, after dinner Thursday night he wasn’t feeling good. He said it was heartburn, so he took some Pepto and we went to bed. Then about midnight I woke up and his breathing sounded funny, you know—stressed or something. He was lying there with pains in his chest, trying to decide whether to wake me. I swear, men can be so—” “Wait a minute. Are you telling me this happened two nights ago? Why the hell didn’t you call me?” “Oh, Wyn, I don’t know. I can’t even tell night from day right now. It’s been a very strange forty-eight hours. I’m sorry I’m not making any sense. Anyway, as soon as he told me what was wrong, I called nine-one-one, and he kept insisting he could drive himself to the clinic. Can you imagine? It was a good thing I didn’t listen to him because by the time the paramedics got here he was about to go into cardiac arrest.” I know she has to be wondering right now if maybe my father, who dropped dead of the same damned thing at the age of fortyfive, had had symptoms, some kind of warning that he ignored or was too stubbornly macho or maybe too scared to tell her about. “I’m sure I can get a flight this morning, and as soon as I—” “No, honey, I’d really rather you didn’t come.” “Why?” “Because everything’s under control, and I think it would upset Richard if everybody started hovering—” “ ‘Hovering’?” “He didn’t even want me to call Gary. What I’d like you to do, if · 64 ·

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you can, is to come home for Christmas. Spend a few days with us. I think it would make Richard very happy. And me, too, of course.” Naturally she interprets the silent pause incorrectly. “I know it’s short notice, and I know you’re probably busy at work—” “No, it’s not that. I’m just not totally awake yet, and I was—” “Oh, the doctor’s coming, honey. I’ve got to run. You see if you can work it out. Maybe you’d like to bring your . . . boyfriend? I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.” I close the door to CM’s bedroom, and since there’s no going back to sleep now, I tiptoe into the kitchen and put the teakettle on. I turn up the thermostat and pull on my sweats and sit at the table. Memories are like those nested Shaker boxes, each one holding another half-forgotten surprise, some pleasant, some not so pleasant. Thinking of Richard reminds me of their wedding last year, how hurt and resentful I felt that she would marry this stranger—actually hold the ceremony in the house she and my father built—and then move him into it. I remember getting knee-walking drunk at the reception, but I don’t remember much of what I did or said. This is probably a good thing. What I mainly recall is meeting Richard’s son, Gary, a perfectly nice guy with whom I ended up having a brief and mindless fling. CM charitably refers to him as my transition man. The worst part of the weekend—aside from the wedding itself—was David showing up on the doorstep the next day to announce that he’d decided we should get divorced so he could marry Advertising Barbie. Not that it came as a huge surprise; it was just the addition of insult to injury. Each successive Kodachrome image in my mind makes me cringe a little more until the teakettle screeches, mercifully ending the reruns. While I’m rummaging through the tin of tea bags, looking for an · 65 ·

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Earl Grey, CM emerges from the bedroom in a green silk kimono with little Japanese dolls embroidered all over it. “What’s going on? Did I hear Dorian quacking?” When I tell her the news, she groans. “Oh, God, how awful. Poor Johanna. They haven’t even been married a year. Are you going home?” “She didn’t want me to come.” She pulls another mug out of the cupboard and pours boiling water in it. “Did she say why?” “She said Richard would get upset if people started ‘hovering.’ She wants me to come home for Christmas. She says I should bring my ‘boyfriend.’ ” “Well, I guess it makes sense.” She dunks a teabag absentmindedly in the cup. “I’m glad it does to someone.”

I slide onto my stool at the bar, and when Mac comes down to say hi, I tell him about Richard. “How’s he doing?” “I guess okay. It actually happened Thursday night, and she didn’t call me till four o’clock this morning.” He leans across the bar for a quick kiss. “How’s she holding up?” “Good. At least she sounds good. I mean, what do I know? I can’t believe she didn’t call me sooner.” “Maybe she wanted to know something definite to tell you. So you wouldn’t worry.” “She told me not to come home. Don’t you think that’s weird?” “Mac! We need another pitcher of Miller.” He goes off to take another pitcher of beer to a table of guys. When he comes back I say, “She wants me to come for Christmas.” He reaches for a tray of clean glasses and starts polishing them with a towel and putting them upside down on the plastic shelf liner. · 66 ·

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“I was wondering if you might want to come. I know it wouldn’t be terribly interesting, but I know she’d like to meet you, and there are a few fun things we could do in L.A. . . .” He doesn’t look up. “I’d like to, but I don’t think I can get off that long.” “We wouldn’t have to stay more than a couple of days. I can’t take off too much time either, but maybe . . .” “I’ll check with Harte and let you know.” When he sticks the empty rack under the rinse sink without making eye contact, I realize it isn’t going to happen. “Forget it. I can tell you don’t want to go.” “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that the holidays are usually busy, and since I just started back again, Kenny’s got first choice. Besides that, it’s a lot of money just to go for a couple of days—” “It’s okay.” “It’s not okay. It obviously bothers you that I can’t go.” “No. It bothers me that you don’t want to go and you can’t just tell me.” He slaps his damp towel on the bar. “Okay. I don’t want to go to L.A. Is that what you want me to say?” “I want you to say what you mean, not a bunch of bullshit excuses.” “Fine.” He walks over to wait on someone. I twirl my wineglass around and watch him talking to a couple of guys at the bar. Laughing as if we haven’t just had our first real disagreement. How do men compartmentalize everything so neatly? They file you away in that relationship box and nothing in there affects any other part of their lives. Why the hell didn’t we just stay friends? That felt reasonably good. We had fun. I could tell him anything. Of course, he never told me very much about himself, but it didn’t matter as much then. Now look at us. Throw some sex into the mix and it’s like putting too much yeast in bread. It’s all very fizzy and light and wonderful, · 67 ·

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but then it rises too high and can’t support its own weight and the whole thing falls flat.

“Why did you do this?” Mac stands in the front door, looking around the apartment. CM has gone with Glenna to see the Queen Anne High School production of The Nutcracker, and since I’m leaving for L.A. tomorrow morning right after work, I’ve invited him over to celebrate our Christmas tonight. Or maybe I neglected to mention the C word when I said I’d cook dinner. I follow his gaze around the living room. Okay, so it looks like Winter Wonderland. CM and I splurged on a huge tree, since she’s not going home. We hung stockings and draped the mantel with pine garland. There are candles flickering softly, Christmas music on the stereo, mulling spices permeating the air . . . and of course, presents piled everywhere. The presents are kind of misleading, because they include CM’s for my mom and Richard, and mine for her parents and her sister Katie and Katie’s two kids, Kyle and Kelsey. “Why did I do what?” “This.” A nod of his head encompasses the whole room. “I thought we were just going to have dinner. We agreed—” “Mac, this is what CM and I do at Christmas. You won’t be forced to participate against your will. I just thought it would be fun to have a nice dinner and some Christmas cookies and—” “Sorry.” He shuts the door behind him and kisses me. “Ooh, you’re cold. Did you walk over?” “Yeah.” When he takes off his coat and hangs it on the back of a dining-room chair, I notice how thin and worn the wool is. “Elky’s in the shop.” While he builds a fire, grumbling all the while about how a fireplace is a waste of wood because it’s just for show and doesn’t really heat a room, I fix two glasses of gluhwein, that sublime combination of warm red wine, sugar, citrus, and spices that my oma used to · 68 ·

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make in wintertime. The year I turned thirteen, just before Christmas, my father said that I was old enough to have one small glass. I remember how I hated the taste—it seemed sour after hot apple cider—but I loved the way it felt, the warmth radiating out from my stomach all the way into my fingers and toes. We sit on the couch with our glasses, wrapping our hands around them to draw the heat, and he stares moodily at the flames. “Mac, what’s wrong? Why are you so grouchy?” “Sorry. I just don’t have a lot of warm, fuzzy feelings about Christmas, I guess.” A laugh bubbles up in my throat, and he turns his face to me. “I wouldn’t say you have a lot of warm, fuzzy feelings about much of anything right now.” His quick smile is like an unexpected present, warming me to my center, just like that first glass of gluhwein. “Except you,” he says. He puts down his glass and kisses me till all the little white lights on the tree seem to sparkle. “Better stop that, or we’ll never make it to dinner.” He kisses my throat, just under my chin. “Would that be so terrible?” “Um, yes, because I made all this wonderful food.” “Well, okay.” He nibbles my earlobe. “But you’re dessert.” I drag myself away, into the kitchen, and he works the fire, stirring it into a roaring blaze. Then he takes the Christmas tape off and puts on the tape he made for me last year just before he went away. I smile as Dylan growls “Tangled Up in Blue.” When I come back to the living room, he’s standing in front of the bookshelves reading my birthday cards from my mom and Richard, CM, Tyler, Ellen, Misha, and Jen. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday? I didn’t even get you a card.” “It’s not important.” He looks at the cards all lined up on the shelf, then back to me. · 69 ·

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“I think if that were true, you wouldn’t have them all on display. When was it?” “The fifteenth, and CM’s the one who put the cards up there, when she was cleaning out the mail basket.” Dinner, all modesty aside, is fabulous. The thinnest of veal scallops, sautéed in butter and white wine with mushrooms and prosciutto. Crusty roasted potatoes with rosemary, a salad of endive and arugula with walnuts and apple. Of course, pain au levain. To drink, a wonderful rosé champagne. And dessert is chocolate soufflés with chocolate-peppermint sauce and thin, crisp sugar cookies. We take our espresso into the living room, and Mac stretches out his long legs under the coffee table. I wait patiently for him to make good on his promise that I’m dessert. CM’s spending the night with Glenna, and I’ve been entertaining myself with fantasies about her empty queen-size bed all day. But he sits staring at the fire. “I know I’ve been kind of a pain in the ass lately. I’ve just been preoccupied. I guess ‘obsessed’ is probably a better word choice. Thinking about the agent. I hadn’t heard from him, so right after Thanksgiving I wrote him a letter and asked if he’d had a chance to read the manuscript.” “And . . . ?” “I got a letter back right away. He apologized for taking so long, said he was still reading it, and that he’d get back to me. And I haven’t heard another damn word.” “It hasn’t been that long since Thanksgiving,” I say gently. “And people are busy during the holidays.” “Almost four weeks.” He draws a long breath and lets it out slowly. “It’s just making me nuts.” He looks over. “Sorry.” “Have you sent it to anyone else?” “No.” “Don’t you think you should?” “That’s what everyone says you should do. Blanket the earth with · 70 ·

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your manuscript.” He shakes his head. “I just had a good feeling about this guy.” “I know it’s hard, but you have to try not to think about it. I’d say if you still haven’t heard from him by the end of January, call him.” I slip off my shoes and curl my legs up under me. “I wish you were going to L.A. with me.” His eyes close and he rests his head on the back of the couch. “I don’t know. I just feel so damn useless.” “Oh, come on. It’s a bad time, that’s all. The manuscript’s in limbo. It’s Christmas, which you’re obviously not into . . .” He puts his arm around me and draws me against him, but he just sits there staring at the fire, which by now is mostly a bed of coals. After about ten minutes of silent staring, I get up and clear the dishes off the table. I load the dishwasher, and set it, and when I turn around he’s standing in the doorway with his coat on. “I can’t stay,” he says. “I’m sorry.” I want to tell him he’s being ridiculous, wasting our time, ruining the whole night, but what’s the point? “Wait a second.” From under the tree I grab the shopping bag that contains the Black Watch plaid flannel shirt I bought him, wrapped in silver foil and tied with a green ribbon. “I told you not to do this.” “I wasn’t listening. So just shut up and take it. It’s not a carved ivory chess set or anything.” He takes the bag and kisses me. “I’ll see you next week,” he says, and makes his escape. I zap what’s left of my gluhwein in the micro and sit on the couch listening to Christmas carols and wishing CM was coming home.

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. six .

o n spite of the red-and-green intarsia sweater, or maybe because of it, Richard looks pale and angular, a prototype for one of his own buildings. “Hello, Wyn. We’re so glad you could come.” When I hug him, he feels frail, just skin stretched over a set of bones. “We’ve got your old room fixed up for you.” I wonder briefly what that means. “I hope you didn’t go to a lot of trouble.” My mother careens out of the kitchen holding a tray of glasses, door swinging in her wake. “Orange juice?” Her eyes glitter with forced brightness as her lips brush my cheek. “How are you feeling?” I ask him. “Pretty good.” He smiles. “Especially considering the alternative. How’s everything up north?” “Oh, fine.” “I’m sorry your . . .” My mother hesitates. “Do they still call them boyfriends? Anyway, I’m sorry he couldn’t come.” I laugh. “He’s not a boy, and he’s not my friend. You can call him Mac. He couldn’t get enough days off.” “What does he do?” Richard asks.

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“He’s a bartender.” “That’s an interesting job.” “You said he was a writer, too,” my mother prompts me. “Yes. He’s just finished a novel.” “Does he have an agent?” Richard sips at his juice. Deep lines fan out around his eyes—lines I don’t remember seeing before. “Someone’s looking at it right now, I think.” “It’s tough breaking into publishing.” Richard crosses his arms. “You have to have the hide of a rhinoceros. Never give up. Jack London had a stack of rejections as tall as he was before he sold his first story.” Thanks for sharing. “But I’m sure Mac knows that,” my mother says quickly. “Is he a Seattle native?” “Actually, he’s from New York.” “Really? Where did he go to school?” “NYU.” “I know some people there. Did he go through the creative writing program?” “Actually, he dropped out after his sophomore year.” That lays a big, silent egg. “Does his family still live in New York?” “His father’s dead. His mother lives on Long Island, I believe. And his brother’s a lawyer. I think.” I stare at the Christmas tree, a flocked one. Lots of the tiny white twinkle lights that are so trendy now. I don’t see any of our old ornaments. All these are made of metal or glass. My father would have hated it. The presents piled underneath are all wrapped in silver or gold with professional-looking bows or clusters of metallic stars and pinecones. I drain my orange juice glass and stand up. “I’m really kind of tired. If it’s okay, I’d like to take a nap.” “Of course.” My mother sounds relieved. “I’ll get you up in plenty of time for dinner.” · 73 ·

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Richard stops halfway out of his chair, remembering that he can’t carry my bag upstairs for me. “I’m sorry.” He flushes deeply. “I’m pretty useless right now.” His echo of Mac’s words is downright creepy. I smile. “That’s okay. I’m used to slinging fifty-pound sacks of flour.” When I drag my suitcase up the stairs and flip on the light in my room, my stomach contracts. It’s all gone. Everything that was mine. The place looks like some anonymous hotel room. An upscale hotel, to be sure, but it certainly doesn’t look like my room. It’s all done in gray and white. My bed has been replaced with one of those daybed things that can be used as a couch. It’s made up with gray-and-white pin-striped sheets, a white knitted blanket, and a charcoal gray spread, turned back. The only color comes from a solid red, square decorator pillow. There’s a brushed-steel-and-glass table next to it that my ex-husband would love. A Tizio lamp and a clear glass vase that looks like a goldfish bowl, filled with red and purple anemones. The walls are upholstered in gray flannel and all my pictures are gone, my bulletin board replaced with black-andwhite architectural photographs in black frames. “Isn’t it snazzy?” My mother is standing next to me, obviously proud of the transformation. “It’s great.” I don’t look at her. “So where’s all my stuff?” “Most of it’s in a couple of boxes in the closet. I thought you might—” “Most?” “Well, some of the newspaper clippings on the bulletin board just disintegrated when Richard took them down, so he had to throw them out.” I swallow. “He tried to save everything.” She lays her hand on my arm. “But some of it was so old . . .” · 74 ·

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I turn to her. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to keep it like a shrine.” I settle my bag on the chrome-and-black luggage rack, unzip the top and fold it back, resting it against the soft gray wall. I’m only half-listening to her saying she’ll wake me in an hour, telling me where to find the towels. She sits down on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked up under her long, black gabardine skirt. The evergreen cotton sweater accentuates the differences in her coloring and mine, makes her hair look even darker and her skin like porcelain. “What’s the status with your divorce? Seems like it should be coming to some kind of conclusion by now.” “Oh, it is,” I say vaguely. “Elizabeth is out of the office. I think she’s skiing in Austria or something. Of course that didn’t stop her bills from going out on time. I’m going to give her a call right after the first.” She clasps her hands together around one knee. “You haven’t told me much about Mac.” I glance at her, trying to gauge exactly what kind of information she’s looking for. “He’s . . . very different from David—” “Johanna?” Richard calls from the foot of the stairs. “Be right down.” She stands up and kisses me on the cheek. “Get some rest. We’ll talk later.”

I wake up at four-thirty feeling stale and groggy. I turn the shower on hot, filling the bathroom with steam, and stand under it, letting water rain down on my back. By the time I’ve pulled on jeans and a sweater and brushed out my hair, it’s nearly six. I decide to forego makeup. Perfumed with good food smells, the whole downstairs is an echo chamber of memories. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace, but no one’s in the den, so I shoulder through the swinging door to the · 75 ·

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kitchen and come face-to-face with one of my grossest lapses in judgment. Gary lounges against the counter, sipping something out of one of those retro martini glasses that are suddenly back in vogue. Why am I so surprised? After all, he’s Richard’s son. “Wyn!” When he kisses my cheek, I catch the drift of his subtly expensive cologne and a hint of gin. “You look terrific. Smell nice, too.” “So do you.” It is the truth. Domesticity agrees with him. His sandy brown hair keeps getting shorter, his eyes seem bluer, his teeth more perfect, except for that endearing little chipped incisor that gives him the look of the roguish but essentially solid intern on a doctor-drama TV show. He looks at me over the rim of his glass. “You obviously didn’t know I was coming.” “Um, no. I didn’t, but I probably should have.” I open the cupboard where my mother used to keep wineglasses and it’s full of liquor bottles. Well, of course. Richard’s rearranged everything else in the damn house. Why not the kitchen? “Do you know where the wineglasses might be?” He moves unerringly to the cupboard next to the fridge. “Red or white?” “Red, please.” He hands me an outsized bowl of a glass. “Suppose I just want a drink, not a bath?” He pulls the stopper from a crystal decanter and half-fills my glass with the garnet-colored wine. “How are Erica and . . . the kids?” I’m embarrassed that I can’t remember their names. The soccer star and the cheerleader princess. “They’re fine. Andrew and Katie are in a school pageant tonight.” He pronounces their names slowly and clearly for me. “I just came down to check on Dad, then I’m taking the red-eye back after dinner.” · 76 ·

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I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed that I’ll be having Christmas alone with my mother and Richard. There’s a lengthy silence while I try to do the wine-connoisseur thing, swirling the wine in the glass so enthusiastically that it just misses sloshing over the rim. “So where are the parental units?” “In the wine cellar.” “Wine cellar?” “Otherwise known as the garage.” He smiles. “How’s Mac?” For a minute my brain stumbles. Then I recall their brief accidental meeting when I was post-op and confined to my house. But how did he know I was seeing Mac now? “That’s who you’re with, isn’t it? The guy I met at your house. The bartender.” Maybe I’m imagining the dismissive tone. “Don’t forget, he delivers firewood, too.” He gives me a careful look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” “No, it’s okay.” I take a big gulp of wine. “I’m just crabby and tired. I had to work all night and then get on the plane and—” “I remember.” He stirs the impaled olive around in his drink. It reminds me of the first time he came to Seattle. Drinking vodka martinis in the bar at Canlis. “Are you happy?” “Very.” It’s automatic and too bright. But what am I supposed to say—my boyfriend’s acting weird, my lawyer’s in Austria, and I can’t afford a pot to pee in, but other than that, everything’s dandy? “And you?” He smiles. “Yeah. The kids are great. I like us being a family again.” At that moment the back door opens and my mother appears, carrying a bottle of champagne. Richard follows with a bottle of red and one of white. “Hello, you two,” he says heartily. As if we were a couple. My mother smiles, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Let’s go in by the fire,” she says. “I’ll bring the hors d’oeuvres. Does everyone have what they want to drink?” · 77 ·

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I want to stay in the kitchen with her, but she shoos me out, and I trail into the den just in time to see Richard lower himself into my father’s leather chair. Okay, fifteen Christmases have come and gone since he died, and yes, other people have sat there in the interim. But watching Richard claim it now, not thinking—maybe not even knowing—sends a tiny jab under my ribs. I sit down on the opposite end of the couch from Gary. My mother appears moments later with a silver tray of crostini. They’re hot and crisp, rubbed with garlic, brushed with olive oil, and topped with a bare sprinkling of sea salt. This from the woman who once served pitted black olives and Smokehouse almonds before all but the most elaborate dinners. “Merry Christmas, everyone.” Richard lifts his fishbowl-sized goblet of red. Gary tells us about the growing pains of his valet-parking company, Katie’s grades—straight As, naturally—Andrew’s swimming prowess and how he’s decided he wants to be called Drew, and Erica’s workload at law school, more than I ever wanted to know. Richard and my mother listen raptly. All I can think of is how much I don’t want to be here. I picture Mac, standing behind the bar at Bailey’s, shirtsleeves rolled up, towel in his back pocket. The way he looks at me sometimes when he thinks I’m submerged in my book. Sort of a pensive look. As if he’s wondering how all this happened with us and what I really want from him. I used to watch the women flirt with him, before. I’m sure a lot of them still do when I’m not there. A couple of the more brazen ones don’t care whether I’m there or not. I think about being in his bed, the way he smells like pine trees, the salt on his skin. Before I can stop the thought, I’m imagining someone else with him. Of course he’d be honest with her, tell her about me—he’s big on people making informed choices. But would he tell me, so I could make an in· 78 ·

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formed choice? He doesn’t really tell me much of anything. Okay, we have conversations. I tell him what I think and how I feel, and he tells me about dark matter and pygmy owls and the geology of the Grand Canyon. Lately I find myself reflecting him, telling him less about how I feel and what I think, more about things I’ve read or seen. So in the relationship—oops, can’t use the r word, he doesn’t like it. I asked him what we should call it then, and he said, Why do we have to call it anything? Can’t we just be?—so in this being that we’re doing here, he really hasn’t changed, but I have. I’ve come full circle from being a stranger to being an intimate, and back to being a stranger. While he’s always been a stranger. And why do I suspect him of seeing other women? He’s never given me any reason to think that. Ironic that David was practically wearing a sandwich board that said I’m cheating! and I never suspected, but Mac seems reasonably committed—oops, bad word number two—and I’m always expecting Laura, his old girlfriend, to pop up. Or somebody new. Somebody I don’t know about yet. For dinner there’s baked chicken and acorn squash and my mother’s homemade applesauce. Then salad with bread and cheese, and having the salad afterward reminds me of my mother’s friend Georgia Graebel, who always gets such a charge out of “eating French.” “How are Georgia and Tim?” I ask my mother, and the look on her face is somewhere between amused and perplexed. “Funny you should ask,” she says. “Georgia called me last week to tell me they’re splitting up.” I nearly inhale a piece of romaine. “What?” Georgia’s husband, Tim, who worked with my father, is an inveterate womanizer. In fact, he holds the distinction of being the only man to ever hit on both me and my mother. Georgia’s known about his extracurricular activities for years, but she seemed to have perfected the art of turning a blind eye. · 79 ·

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“So is he leaving her for some nineteen-year-old in a fishnet jumpsuit, or did she get fed up and kick him out?” I can tell my mother wants to smile, but thinks she shouldn’t. “Neither, actually. Georgia met a man—a retired English professor—at her literacy program. They fell in love and she’s divorcing Tim and marrying Phillip.” I let out a very undignified whoop. “Wow, there is a god. And she’s a woman.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Gary was coming?” I hiss at my mother as soon as the kitchen door closes behind us. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she says simply. “Oh, Mom.” I open the dishwasher. “How could you think that?” She sets the dessert plates, still streaked with orange sauce, into the sink and turns on the water. “I know it’s not a lot of fun for you coming back here. I know how much you still miss your dad. And I’m sure you’d rather be with Mac than sitting around listening to Gary drone on about valet parking . . .” She rolls her eyes and we both giggle. She starts rinsing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher while I pour some more wine in my glass. “Want some?” I hold up the bottle. “No thanks—oh, what the hell. Hit me—or however they say it.” She fills a bowl with soapy water and begins to wash the sterling flatware. I open a drawer. Slam it shut, open another. “Damnit, I can’t find anything around here anymore. Where are the towels?” She laughs. “I know. Richard’s terrible about rearranging things. If it’s this bad now, I can imagine what it’s going to be like when he retires.” When I pull open the bottom drawer and yank out a towel, something heavy clunks. My oma’s rolling pin. I lift it out and run my · 80 ·

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hand down the satiny maple. Traces of flour from a long-ago piecrust linger in a hairline crack. “I think my pie-baking days are over. Why don’t you take it with you?” My mother smiles. “Thanks. I will.” I put my arm around her shoulders for a second. She rinses each piece of silver in scalding-hot water, so hot I can barely hold it even with the towel. My oma used to do the same thing, to kill all the germs, she always said. I dry each piece, polishing it with the flour-sack dish towel, and laying it on the table to be returned to the flannel-lined box. She rinses the last of the silver, then starts on the crystal water goblets. “I was going to tell you about Gary when I went up to wake you. I didn’t mean for it to be a shock.” “It wasn’t exactly a shock. It was just kind of weird. Like déjà vu.” She nods and moves things around in the drainer to make room for more crystal. “He looks good. I guess he and Erica are happy.” “Whatever.” “He sure seemed crazy about you for a while there.” She gives me an analytical glance. I shrug. “I think he was just lonely. He was mostly crazy about the nuclear-family lifestyle.” “It’s not such a terrible fate, you know.” She empties the soapy water, rinses the bowl, and sets it upside down in the drainer. Steam rises to fog the cold window. “Just leave that, honey.” She pulls off her yellow dishwashing gloves, lays them over the faucet, and dusts her hands together in exaggerated Western style. “Well, Tonto, it looks like our work here is done.” I laugh and start for the door, but she picks up the decanter of red wine and refills both our glasses. Then she sits down at the kitchen table. “Don’t you want to go out there with—” I begin. “They can entertain themselves.” She flashes a mischievous smile. “I don’t think I can take any more cheerleader stories tonight.” · 81 ·

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I sit down across from her and ease my feet out of my shoes. “Now don’t be mad at me, I have to ask.” She touches my hand with her warm, smooth fingers. “Does Mac make you happy? Is he good to you? Because if he’s not, I’m going to fly up there and punch him in the nose.” Sudden tears sting my eyes. I’m not sure if it’s this vaguely unsettled feeling I have about Mac, or her earnest protectiveness. Is he good to me? I’ve never even thought about him in those terms. He’s not bad to me. I take a slow sip of wine. “Do you think it’s worth it?” She doesn’t question what I’m asking about. “Oh, honey. Worth is such a relative thing. Sometimes you want something so badly that whether it’s worth it or not doesn’t matter.” “Was it like that with Daddy?” “I just remember thinking that I could be completely ruthless. That I’d do anything it took to hold on. Was it worth it? I think so, but you never know for sure.” “Mac is very . . . self-contained. We can have these great, long conversations about ideas and books and music, and afterward . . .” I hesitate. “I sometimes feel like I was doing most of the—I guess I feel like I’m showing myself to him, and he doesn’t reciprocate.” She frowns. “Do you know anything about his childhood or his parents or—” “His father’s dead. He doesn’t communicate with his mother or brother.” “At all?” “As far as I can tell. He doesn’t talk about that—his family. If I ask him a direct question, he’ll answer it as briefly as possible, and then go right on to something else.” “Wyn, are you sure he’s . . . okay? There’s a lot of wackos out there.” I laugh. “He’s not a wacko. I think you’d like him. He’s got this stillness inside. The way he can watch the ocean. Or listen to a song. As if · 82 ·

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nothing else exists. He doesn’t just look at things; he really sees them.” My voice trails off and she sits back in the chair and looks at me. “It sounds like that self-contained quality is the good news and the bad news.” “Sometimes it bothers me that he never has any money, and that he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t do the things most women expect. Like take me out for my birthday or call me and say he’s thinking about me. But on the other hand, he never wants me to be anything other than what I am. I never feel like I have to prove anything to him. I don’t need to perform.” “Do you love him?” I set down my glass. “I know it’s too soon.” “These things don’t always occur according to schedules.” “All I know is, when we’re together, I just . . . feel good. So good it’s scary.” My mother smiles at me, crinkling the corners of her pretty brown eyes. “Life is scary, Wyn,” she says. “If it’s not, you’re not doing it right.”

Christmas morning. The clock says 5:20 A.M. I wish I was home. In Seattle, sleeping late, having cardamom coffee cake with CM, opening presents. Knowing I’d see Mac later, even though we wouldn’t do the Christmas thing. I slide out of bed. The house feels cold, so I pull on my sweats, stuff my feet into the big, fuzzy slippers that somehow escaped Richard’s purge, and move soundlessly out onto the landing and down the stairs. They don’t have an espresso maker, or even a stove-top espresso pot, but I can make the coffee extra muscular and heat up some milk. Hopefully they have real milk or, even better, half-and-half. As I’m shuffling past the den, I’m startled to see a light under the door. I push the door and peer around it as it swings halfway open. The hundreds of white twinkle lights on the tree are the room’s · 83 ·

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only illumination. Richard is sitting on the floor, taking things out of a large box. His back is to me, so he can’t see me, and I can’t see exactly what he’s doing. It feels awkward, sneaking up on him like this, so I pull the door almost shut and continue on to the kitchen. My mother’s automatic coffeemaker never gets the water hot enough for a proper brew, so I search in every cupboard till I find the old Melitta drip coffeepot that my father always used. No filters, of course, because the automatic one has a permanent filter. A paper towel will work. I fill the teakettle and set it on the stove, switch the setting on the grinder, and locate the coffee beans. Decaf? How am I supposed to stay awake till dinner? In the fridge there’s skim milk and whipping cream. I can mix the two . . . My oma’s rolling pin is still on the table where I left it last night. I pick it up, stroke the fine grain. With all due respect to Lord Byron, I’ve always believed that much depends on breakfast. I open the pantry for a quick survey. Flour, sugar, baking powder, salt. A bag of hazelnuts from Trader Joe’s.

Cappuccino Hazelnut Scones 2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour 1 /3 cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon baking powder 1 /2 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon 3 ounces (6 tablespoons) butter, very cold, cut into small cubes 3/4 cup toasted, coarsely chopped hazelnuts 2 tablespoons instant espresso powder 3 /4 cup heavy cream 1 large egg, lightly beaten Cream and sugar for glaze · 84 ·

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Preheat the oven to 400°F and line a heavy baking sheet with parchment paper. In a large bowl, whisk together the first five ingredients. Cut in the butter with a pastry blender, two table knives, or your fingertips until the largest pieces are about the size of peas. Add the hazelnuts and toss to combine. In a small bowl, stir the espresso powder into the cream until dissolved, add the egg just to blend. Add all at once to the flour mixture and stir with a large fork, until just barely combined. Finish by kneading gently with your hands until all the dry ingredients are absorbed and the dough can be gathered into a moist, shaggy ball. Do not overknead. Tenderness comes from minimal handling. Set the ball in the center of the prepared baking sheet and pat gently into a round about 1 to 11/2 inches thick and about 7 inches in diameter. With a sharp knife, cut into eight wedges, and gently separate slightly. Brush generously with cream and sprinkle with 1 to 2 teaspoons of granulated sugar. Bake until the scones are deep golden and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 18 to 22 minutes. Let cool 10 minutes before serving. (These can be frozen, unbaked, and baked without thawing; just allow 5 to 10 extra minutes of baking time.)

I turn the oven on and pour some hazelnuts into a shallow pan. I take my mother’s chef’s knife out of the knife block and start cutting the cube of butter into small chunks. While I’m whisking the dry ingredients together, the swinging door snaps open. “Wyn. I didn’t realize you were up, too. Merry Christmas.” Richard is wearing a plaid flannel bathrobe and leather slippers. His dark hair is perfectly groomed, but he’s unshaven and looks tired. The thought freezes me. If my father were alive, he would be sixty-one now. He would look like this, not the way I remember him—forty-five, tall, tan, and pulsing with energy. Richard takes in the Melitta, my cup, then the automatic. “Is there something wrong with the coffeemaker?” · 85 ·

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I smile politely. “Only that it doesn’t make good coffee.” “Oh. Sorry. You probably don’t drink decaf, either. I think your mother got some regular for you—” “This is fine, honestly. Would you like some?” “That sounds great. What are you making?” “Scones.” “I love scones. I’m not supposed to eat them right now, but I think one on Christmas morning probably won’t hurt. What do you think?” He gives me a conspiratorial smile. Swell. If I don’t think he should eat one, I’ll look mean and selfish, and if I do think so, it’ll look like I’m trying to kill him. “I think . . .” I fumble for words. “I think pretty much anything is okay in moderation.” “My sentiments exactly.” An awkward silence fills the kitchen. I have no idea what to say to this man who is now my stepfather. And he apparently doesn’t know what to say to me, either. He goes first. “Johanna’s told me how close you were to your dad.” “Yes. I was.” I wish he’d just go back to whatever he was doing and leave me alone. He pours nonfat milk in his coffee cup and nukes it for a few seconds before pouring in the coffee. “I hate putting cold milk in coffee,” he says. “Yeah, me, too.” I push the butter off the knife into a small dish and put it in the freezer. “What’s the rationale behind freezing the butter?” “It makes the scones flakier.” Heat blasts out of the oven as I open the door to put the nuts in. In less than a minute, the warm smell of toasting hazelnuts fills the kitchen. Richard takes little sips of his coffee. “Wynter, I know how hard it is to come back to a place you love and see it altered almost beyond recognition.” I set the timer for the nuts and turn to him. “Howard, I appreci· 86 ·

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ate your concern, but everything’s fine. I don’t live here anymore; you do. The bedroom is beautiful, and a lot more functional than it was with my junk all over the place.” He’s giving me an odd look, and I suddenly understand that it’s because I just called him Howard. My face flares. “Howard?” he says. “I’m really sorry.” “That’s okay. I was just wondering why Howard?” I turn on the hot water in the sink, wash and dry the knife. “If you really want to know . . . I . . .” I press my lips together. “Did you ever read The Fountainhead ?” He starts to laugh. “Howard Roark. That’s great.” He laughs again, and then I laugh, too. When the timer dings, I pull the nuts out and turn the oven up to 400. Richard puts the kettle on for more coffee. “My first wife died when Gary was ten.” “I’m sorry. I’m sure it was hard . . .” “It was very sudden. A brain aneurysm. She was fine and then she was dead. She was . . .” He looks at me for a few seconds. “Just about the age you are now.” He stops talking while I grind more beans. “I was thirty-five, and I was totally devastated. Also totally incompetent at raising my son. Well, pretty incompetent at doing much of anything for a very long time.” “What was her name?” “Gabrielle. Of course, we called her Gabby.” It still makes him smile. He pours boiling water over the ground coffee and we stand side by side watching it slowly settle into the pot below. “Much as I would have liked to remarry, for Gary to have a mother, I just never could bring myself to do it.” He turns his head slowly toward me. “Until I met Johanna. She . . .” He pauses. “Is a very special woman.” “Then why did you have to change everything about her?” It · 87 ·

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comes out spontaneously, and I almost regret it when I see the look of hurt surprise on his face. “What do you mean?” I’m treading on shaky ground here, but this has been on my mind for a long time. “Her hair, her clothes. The whole house.” “I had nothing to do with her change of hairstyle and clothes, Wynter.” He leans one elbow on the kitchen counter. “I think maybe that was something she’d wanted to do for a while. Being with me might have been the catalyst, but the decisions were all hers.” He smiles. “I think you underestimate your mother if you imagine that anyone could bulldoze her into doing anything she didn’t want to do. In fact, that’s one of the things I noticed about her immediately, the way she took charge of that office . . .” All at once I feel silly. No, worse than that. I feel like a petulant six-year-old. “Sorry. It was none of my business anyway.” “As for the house . . . maybe I did push for some changes there, but I think Johanna was happy with the new direction.” “Probably. It doesn’t matter.” I grab the sponge and start wiping up the miniscule spill of hot water on the counter. The coffee grounds go in the compost bucket, and Richard refills both our cups. “When you get the scones in, why don’t you come in the den,” he says. “There are some things I wanted to show you.”

Inside the large box are two smaller boxes, one of which I recognize immediately. Christmas tree ornaments. The ones I made in school, like the paper-plate Santa face. The buckram angel, wings glittery with glued-on sequins. The cotton-ball snowman and woman. The felt Raggedy Ann. The cut-out photographs of my mother and father, pasted on cardboard. There, too, are the ornaments that belonged to my oma and opa—the delicate glass birds with tails made of real feathers; tiny · 88 ·

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silver bells, engraved with their initials; wax images of the holy family, brushed with gilt; dolls and animals woven from straw; and carved horses and soldiers. There are my mother’s painted eggs and origami birds, the Tour Eiffel that my father brought back from a trip to Paris, the tin whistle from his childhood. The other box, of course, holds Gary’s handiwork. Richard and I laugh because it includes the same cotton-ball snowman and paperplate Santa. His box includes a string of those old candle lights with the perpetual rising bubbles and a lot of doily snowflakes and painted tin cutouts from New Mexico. We unwrap them all and spread them out on the coffee table, telling each other the stories of each one, and when my mother wanders in sleepily an hour later, Richard and I are nibbling on our scones and hanging the relics on the flocked tree, on top of the pristine glass balls and shiny metal stars.

· 89 ·

. seven .

o it up in the dark, L.A. looks like the vast motherboard of a very unwieldy computer. The chimes ring—I’ve never figured out what they’re for—and I sip my wine, wondering what kind of germs I’m inhaling from all the recirculated air. I feel tired and inexplicably sad, suddenly vulnerable to unseen dangers, of which hostile microbes are only the least. I should be happy. It was a pretty decent Christmas, the first in recent memory. There was a sort of wobbly rapprochement between Richard and me. My mother and I actually talked about our lives. And stuffed in my carry-on bag is the Christmas present of my dreams—in fact, beyond my dreams. I was nearly speechless when I ripped open the envelope and found a round-trip ticket to Paris, with a connection to Toulouse, purchased using frequent-flyer freebies— Richard’s, I’m sure, because my mother hasn’t traveled enough lately to earn a free ticket to Burbank. “We thought you could use a real vacation this summer,” she explained after I stammered my undying gratitude. The thrill lasted just long enough for me to realize that I’ll be going alone, because there’s no way Mac can afford to go. A cold, dark current circulates around me, like the air-

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conditioning on this damn freezing plane. I pull my jacket closer, tuck my hands under my arms. I change the channel of “in-flight entertainment” from jazz to opera just in time to catch Victoria de Los Angeles singing “Habañera,” from Carmen. L’amour est un oiseau rebelle: “Love is a rebellious bird that no one can tame. Love is a gypsy child.” My favorite line is “If you don’t love me, then I love you, but if I love you, then watch out!” When I close my eyes, I see—not Mac—Gary. Leaning against the kitchen counter, looking like the boy next door. The thing I recall about him now—in stark contrast to Mac—is his openness. He was always so forthcoming with his feelings, his own story. It probably would have been fairly painless to settle into a life with him. At the time, I was sneering at painless, but it might not be such a bad deal—a man who loves you, a nice man, let’s not forget. Attractive. No shortage of cash. You could learn to live with stepchildren and ex-wives. People do it all the time. God, what am I thinking? It would have been painless, all right. Like being under anesthesia. I finish the wine and lean my head back against the scratchy white pillow, and what seems like three minutes later we bump and skid onto the rain-slicked Sea-Tac runway. The air in the terminal doesn’t smell much better than that on the plane, but at least it’s not freezing. I told CM not to bother coming in, to just pick me up outside baggage claim. I push forward out of the crush, hurrying to break away from the press of bodies. “Hey, lady. Need a taxi?” I wheel around, already smiling stupidly, and there he is. Wearing the Black Watch plaid flannel shirt and jeans and his old down vest. Holding the most exquisite rose I’ve ever seen. Its petals are a pale salmon color on the outside, a warm shade of parchment on the inside. He holds it out to me. “It’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen one like that.” It has a light, spicy fragrance. · 91 ·

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“It’s called a Caramella,” he says. I look around. “Where’s CM?” “I gave her the night off.” When he kisses me he smells like the rainy night. “How was everything down south?” “It was good. Better than I expected.” For once, I don’t feel like talking. I just want to soak him up. While we wait for the bags to come down, he puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side, and I look up into his gaze. “I should have gone with you,” he says. I shake my head. “You probably couldn’t have gotten off.” “Maybe. But I didn’t try. I’m sorry.” The look he gives me at that moment is more than just an apology. It’s a look that promises something. I’m not even sure what, but it’s enough.

Mac has to work on New Year’s Eve, having traded with Kenny so he could pick me up at the airport. It’s just as well. CM and I have a long-standing tradition of spending New Year’s Eve listening to oldies, eating good food, and drinking champagne until we are able to recall and perform the lyrics and choreography to all of the Supremes’ greatest hits. By the time our soup is simmering, the rain’s turned to sleet. We hear it making little splats on the windows. We’re starting out slow, with a Dave Brubeck tape, and I’ve just put some phyllo pastries with mushrooms and feta cheese into the oven to fill the role of hors d’oeuvres. The buzzer rings. “Who the hell . . .” CM goes to the squawk box. “Yes?” “W-Wyn? It’s me. Tyler. Can I come up?” CM buzzes her in and I open the door. On the landing is a wet, shivering mass of sleet and tears, looking like a drowned blue rat. “Tyler?” I grab her and pull her in. “What the hell are you doing?” She’s shaking too hard to discuss it. · 92 ·

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We drag her to the bathroom, strip her down, and get her under a cool shower, gradually raising the water temperature till she warms up enough to stop shivering. CM goes to make a cup of tea while I rummage through my drawers looking for some clothing she won’t get lost in. Then simultaneously I smell smoke and the smoke detector starts emitting its piercing squawk. “Oh shit!” CM says. “What?” “Our hors d’oeuvres look like they’ve been napalmed. Phew.” She’s opening the windows, fanning frantically. When I take Tyler my smallest sweatshirt and some tights, she looks stricken. “Did I screw up your dinner?” “Oh, don’t worry. It was just snacks. Here. Put these on and then come out by the fire.” She wanders out, waiflike in my oversized clothes. She sits on the floor by the fireplace, takes a sip of the hot tea, and makes a face. “This tastes like baby piss.” “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” says CM. “For your information, it’s green tea and it just might keep you from catching pneumonia.” Tyler buries her nose in the mug, chastened, and keeps sneaking looks at CM, whom she’s never seen up close and personal. Finally I say, “Not to be nosy or anything, but what were you doing strolling around in the sleet on New Year’s Eve?” She mumbles into the tea, something that sounds like, “. . . asshole threw me out.” “What? Your dad?” She shakes her head. “My date. We were going to this party and we had a fight and he threw me out of the car.” “Who is this paragon of chivalry?” CM asks. Tyler giggles. “She talks like you.” “She isn’t royalty; she just looks like it. Feel free to address her directly.” · 93 ·

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She looks at CM. “Jason Harris. He’s a friend of my friend DeeDee’s boyfriend. It was sort of a blind date.” “What was the argument about?” “I wanted to go to Barton’s party. He wanted to go get high and fuck.” CM rolls her eyes. “Ah, the answer to a maiden’s prayer.” “Where did you and he part company?” I ask. “Over by Olympia Pizza.” “You walked over here from there? Why didn’t you take the bus?” She looks sheepish. “I left my purse in his car.” The timer starts buzzing for the new batch of phyllo bites, and I go to retrieve them. “Tyler, you want some champagne?” “Don’t we have to wait till midnight?” “Not in this house.” “Cool.”

On January 5 I call Elizabeth Gooden, my attorney in Los Angeles. I ask politely about her vacation. “It was lovely, thanks. You know, you’re the only one of my clients who’s even asked.” I consider telling her that the others probably don’t want to know how she’s spending their money, but I figure that would nullify all the points I just made with her. “How are you?” she says. “Well, if you disregard the fact that there’s another payment coming due on the bakery as of February first, and I still haven’t paid my mother back the fifteen grand she loaned me as the first payment, well, then you could say I’m fine. I guess what I’m wondering is what my ex-husband-pending and his scumbag lawyer are doing with the paperwork.” “I’ve had an indication that we can expect an agreement soon, so I’m trying my best to chase Ivan down, but he hasn’t returned my · 94 ·

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phone calls. I’m sorry my news isn’t any better, but I don’t see any reason why it should take longer than a few more weeks.” “Weeks? God, what am I supposed to do for money in the meantime?” “I don’t know, Wynter. If you recall, last year at this time, you were telling me to stall. To drag it out as long as possible, so for quite a while, that’s just what I did. Then you changed your mind, and I changed my approach, but I can’t do anything about their response, as long as it’s within acceptable parameters.” There’s not much I can say to that, since every word is the gospel truth. I even remember her saying to me, She who seeks revenge should dig two graves, Wynter—one for her victim and one for herself. “I know. I’m just in a tight situation here. Monetarily.” “Well, I’m going to continue to do everything I can to bring this case to a swift and satisfactory conclusion for you, Wynter. I’ll let you know just as soon as I hear something.” She pauses. “Oh, and happy New Year.”

It’s the kind of day that’s rare in Seattle in January. Which is a good thing, because if they happened too often, the rest of the outside world might discover the city and come swarming up here. The sky is an inverted bowl of blue tracked by white contrails, and there’s a gentle westerly breeze. The sun is warm on my face and I know I’m going to have a whole new crop of freckles, but it feels so good I don’t care. The other reason I feel good is that my mother told me not to worry about the fifteen thousand dollars I owe her, and she didn’t even blink when I swallowed my pride and asked for another fifteen. In fact, she just made that little clicking noise she learned from my oma, and said, “David Franklin just better hope I never see him standing in a crosswalk.” Mac’s in a really good mood because he finally heard from Alan · 95 ·

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Lear, the agent who’s been reading his manuscript. He said that he liked the work, although he couldn’t take on any new clients right now, but he was passing the manuscript on to his new partner, a guy named Steve Devine. So we’re sort of celebrating today. We’ve occupied a tiny table in front of Two Dagos from Texas, a funky Italian café down on First Avenue, where we’re having lunch. Mac’s immersed in Bonfire of the Vanities and I’m watching the parade of assorted odd birds that nest here in Belltown. You’ve got your starving-artist loft dwellers, your merchant marine contingent, thrift-shop patrons, the usual homeless, a few punkers who frequent the music clubs and retro shops, and an occasional yuppie resident of the high-rise condo and apartment buildings that are just beginning to sprout around the district’s fringes. If you sit here long enough, you can see almost anything, so at first I don’t pay any attention to the bedraggled-looking guy slouching down the sidewalk, hands jammed into his pockets. Until he gets right in front of our table and stares hard. “McLeod?” he says. Then louder, “Mac McLeod?” For a second they stare at each other. A slow grin breaks across Mac’s face. “Son of a bitch.” He closes the book and stands up and then he and this guy who looks like he spent the night on a park bench in Pioneer Square are shaking hands and pounding each other on the back. And then they actually hug each other. All I can think of is that this must be somebody pretty special, because I can smell him from four feet away, and hugging him would not be an option for me. He isn’t as tall as Mac, but he’s sturdy looking and deeply tanned. His hair is long, stringy, and dirty blond, his eyes a deep, strange gray. “Holy shit, pilgrim. I heard you might be in Seattle, but I can’t believe I just stumbled over you like this. How the hell are you?” “Good. What about you?” Then he remembers me. “Oh, sorry. Wyn, this is Nick Hatcher. Wyn Morrison.” A hand is thrust under my nose, and I have to shake it, but I · 96 ·

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make a mental note not to eat anything else till I can go to the john and scrub. Mac grabs a vacant chair and pulls it over to our table. When Nick Hatcher scoots up so close that his knee is almost touching mine, I try to identify the smell—week-old roadkill? Suddenly the rest of my blue-cheese turkey burger seems a lot less appealing, so the hand-washing thing becomes less urgent. I try to be subtle as I check out every detail of his appearance, from the run-over loafers on his dirty feet, to his grimy cords that are ripped in both knees, to the faded Grateful Dead world-tour T-shirt stretched over his well-developed biceps. His hands, besides being estranged from soap and water for some time, are scraped and bruised, and his ragged fingernails look as if he’s been digging in road tar. “What are you doing here?” Mac asks. “Provisioning, man.” He leans his elbows on the table. “I’m meeting Duncan and Meeker in Spokane and we’re going up to do some ice in the North Cascades. Then, I don’t know, maybe head up to B.C. this summer. What are you doing here?” “I live here. Going on seven years.” Nick’s eyes slide briefly over to me, but he doesn’t ask. “Well, you’re looking mighty prosperous. What’s your gig?” “Tending bar, mostly.” Mac doesn’t ask what Nick’s into. Instead, for the next twenty minutes they sit around reminiscing like fraternity brothers at a reunion. And it quickly becomes clear that the fraternity they belong to is the brotherhood of rock climbing. They talk about people they’ve known. Lots of them have funny names, like Pooper or Sodbuster. I don’t think I want to know. At least one is no longer among the living. They relive tense moments at places called Wingate and Garden of the Gods and Lumpy Ridge, and the parties afterward. They laugh about somebody named Dude trying to talk a topless dancer · 97 ·

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into going rock climbing, and the time Charlie’s stove blew up on the miniscule ledge where he was bivouacked. The waiter comes out and asks if I’m through. I nod, but when he starts to pick up my plate, Nick eyes the uneaten half of my sandwich. “You mind?” he says rhetorically. He wolfs it down in three bites and sits contentedly picking turkey out of his teeth. Nick talks about climbing at the “Gunks,” whatever that is, and about a freak blizzard last June in the Wind River range. He says he’s more into alpining these days, likes ice, is thinking seriously about Alaska. Then he looks at Mac. “But what about you, pilgrim? You’re right here in the middle of hard-rock heaven. Where do you go? Leavenworth? Washington Pass? I heard Frenchman Coulee was awesome.” Mac looks across the street, then back at Nick. “I haven’t been on rock in a while. Not since I came here.” I can’t tell if Nick is surprised. He hesitates for a second. “Well, shit, McLeod. You need to get your ass back on the granite. Why don’t you take a few days this spring and hook up with us in the North Cascades? Wouldn’t that be a gas!” For some reason he looks at me. “Just like the old days.” Mac smiles. “Hard to get enough days off to make it worthwhile. You know how it is.” Hatcher gives an overly hearty laugh. “Yeah, that’s the trouble with real work. You gotta learn to say no to that shit. It’ll ruin your life if you let it.” He gets up abruptly and Mac does, too, and they shake hands again. “Where you working? I’ll stop by before I head out.” He scribbles down Mac’s directions to Bailey’s on a clean napkin, and then he shuffles off the way he was headed and I can breathe through my nose again. Mac picks up the book, and reads the same page for about five minutes before he finally looks over at me. “A blast from the past,” he says. · 98 ·

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“Way past. Like the cretaceous era,” I say. “You think he’s doing controlled substances?” He laughs. “Hard-core climbers tend to forget about the niceties of grooming. There’ve been times when I probably looked and smelled exactly like that.” “Like when you delivered my firewood.” He smiles and looks back at the book. He drinks some of his Coke, which by now sports a layer of melted ice on top. Finally he shuts the book and lays it on the table. “A bunch of us used to hang out together in Colorado. Seems like a long time ago. I guess it was. About ten years. We were all essentially ski bums in the winter, rock bums in the summer. We waited tables, did construction—whatever we had to do to eat, but mostly we just skied and climbed.” “So why haven’t you been rock climbing since you came here?” He slides the glass around in its puddle of condensation. “Because if I was still climbing, I’d probably look like Nick Hatcher. It’s not something you can do one weekend a month. Not the kind of climbing I liked. It becomes your life and you can’t do anything else. You’ve got to keep up the practice to stay sharp. And if you don’t stay sharp, someday you end up doing a free solo rappel.” “What’s that?” “A grounder.” “Oh.”

February passes as one big, gray, wet blur. Every day is either cloudy or foggy or misty or pouring rain or some combination of the above. It doesn’t get light in the morning till eight or so and it’s dark by five. The only good thing about the weather is that it gives everybody something to talk about. I lose count of all the stories I hear that begin, You think this is bad, you should’ve been here in the winter of ———. Fill in the blank with your year of choice. · 99 ·

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On the cusp of the month, Elizabeth calls. When she says, “Wynter, I have some news for you,” I know immediately that this isn’t the call I was hoping for. “David has apparently fired Ivan Hochnauer and hired a different attorney, a woman by the name of Adele King. I’ve spoken with her, and she will, of course, need some time to get up to speed with the case.” “How much is ‘some time’?” “I’d say we’re probably looking at two months before we can expect a settlement.” I want to lie down and kick my heels on the floor and scream. Instead, I say, “He’s doing this on purpose.” “Chances are good,” she says. “What can we do?” “Nothing at the moment. We have to allow her time to prepare. I’ll be in touch.” Poverty looms in my rearview mirror. And it’s gaining on me.

By the end of March, the days are noticeably longer, and there are signs that spring might be circling for a landing. Crocuses and snowdrops push up through the dank black earth, yellow and purple and white. Pale green lanterns of hellebore glow in the deep shade. Airy yellow forsythia. The flowering cherry trees that line Queen Street shed their blossoms in drifts of white. Tulip trees are in full bloom. Ellen calls them magnolias, and technically they are. My father never liked them because they don’t look like much the rest of the year, but to me, they’re more than worth it for that brief interlude in spring when the creamy white or pale pink or deep pink blooms cover the bare branches, looking like a huge bouquet of tulips. One of the houses on Galer that I pass every morning has an ar· 100 ·

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bor at the gate covered with early sweet peas in lilac and hot pink. I always slow down when I walk past, lingering in the heady scent. But the night wind is still cold and sharp and wet.

Just a twinge. When I roll over it pulls me back toward consciousness, but not all the way. Must have been sleeping with my arm bent weird or something. At three-thirty in the afternoon I get up and shower, and while I’m brushing my teeth, it happens again. A tiny, darting pain in my right wrist, so quick and then gone. Maybe I imagined it. But I start tiptoeing around it anyway. I move my arm, hand, fingers deliberately and carefully. No sudden twists. It seems okay. I hear CM on the landing, fumbling with the keys, so I go to let her in, and when I turn the doorknob, my wrist buzzes me like an angry bee. She pushes past me, setting a cardboard carton full of dance shoes on the floor by the couch, shrugging out of her trench coat, hanging it on the brass hook behind the door. “Brrr. It’s getting cold out there. Shall I make a fire? What should we eat? Is Mac coming over?” I’m frowning at my wrist, rotating it, bending it back and forth. “No, he’s delivering wood and then going right to Bailey’s. We have some vegetable soup and I brought home a loaf of garlic-parmesan bread.” “What’s the matter with your hand?” “Nothing. I must’ve slept with it curled under.” “Try this. Elbow at your waist.” She shows me how to do a figureeight rotation that makes the joint pop noisily. “There you go.” She builds a fire with scraps of newspaper and kindling, then goes to wash up while I turn the burner on under the soup pot and set the table. By the time the soup’s hot, the fire is grazing on a large · 101 ·

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chunk of alder, and she’s filling our wineglasses. I pull the ladle off its hook and pick up the soup pot. Pain slashes at my arm, inner wrist to elbow. “Shit.” “What?” She looks up from the front page of the paper. “I don’t know. This hurts.” She brings our bowls over to the stove and holds my wrist, prodding it gently. “Does that hurt?” “No. It’s just when I pick up something heavy or twist it a certain way.” She takes the ladle from my left hand and fills both bowls. “What’s it feel like?” “Sharp. Shooting.” “Could be a touch of tendonitis.” She sets our bowls on the cork mats and we sit down. “Welcome to the wonderful world of physical labor.” “What should I do?” “Go to the drugstore and get yourself a wrist splint to wear at night. Beyond that, about the only things I know of are aspirin and rest.” “Rest? How am I going to make bread?” She grates some parmigiana into her soup and passes it to me. “That, I believe, is what apprentices are for.”

At first Tyler doesn’t believe me. “You mean I’m doing it all?” “Every single, last loaf. I can help you with the mixing and scaling. Not too sure about loading and unloading, but I definitely won’t be doing any shaping or heavy lifting.” “What if I—what if we don’t get everything done?” “I think we’re going to assume that things have to slow down. In· 102 ·

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stead of making four kinds of bread a night, we’ll make two, just more loaves.” She looks dazed. “You’re not kidding, are you?” “No.”

For the next three weeks, I teach her the way Jean-Marc taught me. How to judge the dough’s temperature, its plasticity, its wetness, its resistance. How to form the boules and bâtards, stretching the outside skin of the dough, creating the surface tension that forces it to rise up instead of just spreading out. How to make her touch firm but gentle, so as not to de-gas the loaf. Sometimes when I’m trying to explain these things to her, the image of him crystallizes in my mind. I can see his hands, encrusted with dough, his olive skin, the wiry black hair on his arms dusted with flour. It’s his voice that says, Non, non. Pas comme ça. This is bread, Wynter, not clay. It is alive. It talks to you. Écoutez! The memory is so clear that my breath stops for a split second. Tyler works at it with an intensity that surprises me, almost a fierceness. And she becomes very good very quickly.

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. eight .

o bad marriage is like the psycho killer in a slasher flick. Just when you think it’s dead, it suddenly looms up in front of you, looking for blood. In the movies, you know it’s coming, and you keep thinking, No, no, no, do NOT go into that dark basement alone, you idiot. Unfortunately, in real life, somehow you lack this foresight. I’ve been trying not to think about the whole divorce thing—and doing a pretty good job of it, too—taking each day as it comes, trying to enjoy work, much easier since Tyler’s become proficient enough to be a real help. We’ve even sort of bonded, as bread bakers tend to do. The only nagging worry is money—or the lack of it. This is a new experience for me, this being adrift on a sea of debt— even if my main creditor is just my mother—having to watch every single penny. But whenever I complain, CM smiles and tells me it builds character. The last Thursday in April I come home from the library feeling pretty righteous because I’ve gotten some new books to read without spending any money. When I lay them on the desk, I see the light blinking on the answering machine. I hold my breath and press the play button. It’s Elizabeth. Her message is terse.

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Wynter, please call me at your earliest convenience. I tell myself it’s not necessarily bad news. That’s just the way she talks. I mean, the worst is over. Isn’t it? How bad could it be? But my stomach feels awash with hydrochloric acid as I dial her number. Her secretary puts me through right away—another bad sign. “Thanks for calling, Wynter. I wanted to advise you that your husband and his attorney have filed a motion to bifurcate, that is, to divide the marital-status issue from the other issues in contention, namely, the financial settlement. The hearing on the motion will be in two weeks.” This isn’t good, I’m fairly certain, but I’m not clear on exactly what it means. “What’s this about? Do I have to be there?” “No, you don’t have to be present. Briefly, it means that since the six-month waiting period for termination of marital status is up, the divorce decree can proceed. Without the financial settlement, from which it has been bifurcated.” “What?” “Essentially, David will be free to remarry and settle the financial issues separately at a later date.” I can’t think what to say because I’m trying to decide who to kill first. “Are you there, Wynter?” “Is there any chance the motion won’t be . . . approved?” “Hardly any. There would have to be some very strong reasons—” “Doesn’t the fact that he’s an asshole and he’s trying to screw me out of what’s rightfully mine count for anything?” “Um, probably not per se . . .” “I’m . . . I can’t believe it. Are you sure they can do this?” “Yes, I’m afraid so.” “But, it’s not fair! ” Elizabeth wisely opts not to discuss that point. Oddly, my next thought is, how could this Adele King person do that to a cowoman? I feel utterly betrayed. · 105 ·

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“So . . .” I swallow. “What do we do? I mean . . . God. What do we do? ” I feel like my legs have been shot off. I stop pacing and collapse on the couch. “His attorney has informed me that they want a full trial in front of the court to divide the assets. They’ve requested a trial date, but it will probably take six to ten months before we get to court.” It doesn’t seem worth repeating that this latest development is beyond belief. “Wynter, I’m sorry. I know this is disturbing news for you. But in my opinion, this maneuver is simply an attempt to discourage you and destroy your morale.” “Well, shit. I think it’s working.” “I know, but let’s consider this. If we have to go to court, it’s going to be very expensive for him, as well as for you. And depending upon who the judge is, he or she may not look favorably on some of the things David has done. I firmly believe your husband is aware of this, and I know Adele is. I don’t think they really intend to go to trial. But if they can make you feel like you’d rather just wash your hands of the whole thing than go through a trial, then it puts him in the stronger negotiating position. Are you with me?” “So what do we do?” I ask again. My lips feel numb. “My suggestion would be that we prepare to go to trial, but continue to try to negotiate a settlement. We have plenty of time to work it out, and I can’t see any reason to go to court. Does that sound reasonable to you?” I nod, forgetting that she can’t see me. “Okay.” “Good. Then try not to worry too much about this, and I’ll be in touch.” I’m standing in the bay window with the duck phone still in my hand when Mac walks in. “What’s wrong?” he says as soon as he sees me. He puts the phone back in its cradle, sits down on the couch, and · 106 ·

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tugs at my hand till I drop down beside him. I lean forward, elbows on knees, staring at the tops of my cross trainers. “I just talked to my lawyer. David has filed what they call a ‘motion to bifurcate.’ ” “What’s that?” “It means they’re going to separate the financial split from the divorce decree. It means no matter how long the financial agreement takes, he can go ahead and get divorced. He can go ahead and marry Kelley.” I hate the way my voice shakes. “Is that so bad? Do you care if he marries her?” “You don’t understand. The divorce was my leverage.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Now he can marry her and it doesn’t matter how long the goddamn settlement takes, he has what he wants.” He starts making lazy circles on my back with the heel of his hand. It feels so good I can’t bear it. “I can’t believe this. I thought it was over.” “Is there any chance the motion won’t be granted?” “Not really.” “Do you think your lawyer’s doing her job?” “Who the hell knows with lawyers? Anyway, I’m not up to starting all over with another attorney.” “So what does she propose to do?” “She says it’s probably just a ploy. To make me want to give up. So he’d be in a stronger position to negotiate a settlement.” One tear breaks the surface tension and rolls down my face. He brushes it away, then licks his thumb. “She says we should prepare for a trial, but keep trying to work out a settlement.” “Sounds reasonable.” He props a cowboy boot up on his knee. “I know, it’s just . . . I thought it was over.” After another minute of silent back rubbing, he says, “I know what would make you feel better.” · 107 ·

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“So do I. A telegram saying that David Franklin has disappeared into a crevasse on the Mendenhall Glacier.” “I was thinking more along the lines of a couple of days on Orcas Island.” I look at him. “When?” “We could leave Saturday morning, as soon as you’re off, and come back Sunday afternoon. I know it’s kind of a quick turnaround, but Rick’s been wanting me to take a run up to Eastsound and check the cottage. I guess they’ve had a couple of hard rains and a good blow in the last two weeks. I thought if I went this weekend, you might keep me company. A return to the scene of the crime, so to speak.”

Saturday morning I’m standing outside the bakery, CM’s gray overnight bag at my feet, holding two white bakery sacks and two lidded cups, when the Elky pulls up at the curb, gleaming like white porcelain. Mac gets out, kisses me, and throws my bag in the back. He takes one of the cups. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a bakery with curb service.” “What’s with the Elky? It looks fabulous.” I climb in, waving at Tyler and Ellen, watching us from the window. “I decided it was time for a complete rehab. Before it got to the point of no return. New clutch, new brakes, shocks, and tires.” He hands me three tapes. “Had the tape deck fixed, too.” “Did you rob a bank?” “Nope. I’ve been saving everything I made at Norwegian Woods. Anyway, it’s cheaper than buying a new truck.” I pop in one of the tapes and we head across the Aurora Bridge with the haunting sounds of the Allman Brothers’ “Midnight Rider” trailing out the open window. ·

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By nine-thirty we’re sitting in a line of cars that stretches halfway back to the road from the Anacortes ferry landing, foraging in the white bakery bags for the last crumbs of Jen’s short scones. When the Elky is wedged snugly into a lane on the car deck with all the Jeeps and station wagons and vans and four-by-fours, we climb the stairs to the second deck. The passenger cabin is a forest of GoreTex-covered tourists. Groups of teenagers laugh too loudly and knots of children chase each other through the aisles, screaming with pre-weekend glee. We head for the cafeteria. The coffee looks like black water, so I decline. Mac pours artificial creamer in his till it turns a sick, gray color. I get a small plastic bottle of orange juice and we go outside to stand by the rail. It’s quieter on deck; most people are keeping warm inside, and there’s something about fog that always makes people whisper. The ocean is flat and glassy, and the ferry seems to sit motionless on a cold, gray mirror while the seascape rolls by like a movie. Islands appear suddenly out of the mist and then vanish. Gulls float beside us, like bird marionettes, till they tire of watching us and peel off into the fog. Every once in a while we spot a house, tucked into a cove or perched on its own island, connected to the outside world maybe by a sandbar at low tide or by the owner’s boat, tied nearby. Or in one case, by a spiffy yellow float plane parked at the dock. I shiver through my sweatshirt and parka, and Mac puts his arm around me. Just then a woman in a short-sleeved T-shirt walks past us, carrying a baby wearing only a diaper and a little undershirt. They both seem oblivious to the damp cold. “Must be aboriginals,” he says. “I think it’s good to acclimatize early in life. In France they say that when a baby is born, his father should dip a finger in good red wine and put it in the baby’s mouth so he’ll know what the good stuff is supposed to taste like.” “What else do they do in France? Take the little boy babies and · 109 ·

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put them in the crib with the little girl babies so they’ll know about that, too?” “You’re perverted and sick. And I like that in a man.”

As we drive up Horseshoe Highway from the Orcas ferry landing, we submerge briefly in pools of dense fog collected in the hollows. At first I think it’s raining, but it’s just water dripping from the trees that line both sides of the road. When we reach Eastsound’s collection of little shops and businesses perched on a cliff over the water, Mac guides the Elky into a parking place. We get turkey burritos at a little walk-up window and eat them while we wander around the two or three streets that make up the village of Eastsound. By now it’s nearly noon, and the fog has burned off, leaving the sky a thin, watery blue. We stand for a minute at the wooden guard rail watching the waves lap at the foot of the bluffs. I unzip my jacket in the heat of the sun, feeling the wind in my hair. “This is so beautiful. I wish I had my camera.” “Personally, I’m glad you don’t,” he says. “Why?” I shade my eyes with my hand to look at his face. “When you’re busy taking pictures, you forget what you’re doing. You forget to live in the moment. And you end up with some dumb souvenir of a nonevent.” I stare at him. “Oh, bug off, McLeod. Sometimes you’re such an elitist curmudgeon.” His laugh is contagious. “Look who’s talking about elitists. The croissant police. Ms. No-Ketchup-on-your-hashbrowns.” After a quick pass through the organic grocery, we head for the cottage, skirting the Crescent Beach oyster beds, and turning left onto Terrill’s Beach Road, then right on Buckhorn. In a few minutes tantalizing glimpses of water appear on our left. Mac turns in at the sign announcing “Madrone Cottage,” and we bump up the gravel driveway. The white clapboard bungalow is just · 110 ·

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as I remember it from that day—has it really been nine months since then? The only difference is the way its new white paint glows against the backdrop of wet, green conifers. Mac unlocks the door and we go inside. It’s like a halfremembered dream of a grandmother’s house—the knotty-pine paneling, the well-worn maroon couch, two green chairs. The battered trunk that serves as a coffee table. Book shelves overflowing with paperbacks and board games. We carry our bags through the tiny hall that seems to slope downhill and into the bedroom with its iron bed, piled high with quilts. My memory of that first visit overlays everything like a fine layer of dust. The first time we made love was in this room. Mac, obviously untroubled by sentiment, drops his duffle on the floor by the unfinished pine chest and empties his pockets onto the scarred top. “I’m going to check out the shed.” I go into the kitchen and stand at the sink, looking out into the woods, wondering what happened to Minnie, the scruffy yellow mutt that hung around here with Mac. While he repairs the damage to the shed roof, I pull out my bag of organic whole wheat flour. In Seattle I’ve always used a pinch of commercial dried yeast to get a chef started. Up here the air seems so pure, it’s probably teeming with microorganisms, and I want to try making a completely natural starter. I don’t think there are a lot of chemicals in the tap water, but just to be on the safe side, I picked up a bottle of spring water. The laid-back dude at the store assured me that this brand truly was from a spring and not just designer tap water. I stir a half cup of the water into three quarters of a cup of flour, cover the bowl loosely, and leave it on the counter. Then out to the porch, curling up on the love seat with a Ruth Rendell paperback that I found on the bookshelves. I whip through the first chapter, but a gradual drowsiness comes over me and I stretch out on the love seat, dangling my feet over one end. The stillness is mesmerizing. I hear the wind in the same instant · 111 ·

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that I feel it washing over my face. Grace notes of a few birds. Dust particles suspended in a shaft of sunlight. A bumblebee hovers somewhere outside my line of vision, and I don’t even have the energy to turn my head. A doe walks calmly out of the forest to graze less than fifty feet from the house.

The sound of footsteps crunching on gravel wakes me up. My feet are numb and tingling; the sun is behind the trees. Mac comes up on the porch, laughing that slow laugh he has. “Catching up on your beauty sleep?” “All the better to keep you awake all night.” My mouth is dry. “What time is it?” “About five. I’m heading for the shower.” I yawn and drag myself up to a sitting position, try to rotate the kink out of my neck. “What shall we do for dinner?” “There’s a great little wine bar down on the bluff. I propose we have some wine and contemplate the options.”

The sun is inching toward the sea when we walk up three wooden steps, past a planter exploding with blue petunias, red geraniums, and white lobelia. There’s no sign, but Mac says it’s the place. Inside it’s quiet. “Hi. Two for dinner?” The voice belongs to a tan blonde with metallic blue eyes. “Actually we just wanted a glass of wine,” Mac said. “I thought this was a wine bar.” The blonde smiles. “It used to be. Alex bought it about a month ago and it’s a café now. We don’t have our sign up yet. But you can still get a glass of wine. Have a seat at the bar and I’ll call him.” When Jean-Marc’s clone walks out of the kitchen, I almost fall off my stool. The initial resemblance is uncanny, but upon closer in· 112 ·

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spection, there are obvious differences. He’s slightly taller than JeanMarc and his face is more mobile, ready to smile or frown; his eyes are just as dark, but less guarded, more expressive. The body could have been made from the same mold, stocky, muscular. His black hair is pulled into a ponytail—something Jean-Marc would never dream of—and he’s wearing a white chef’s coat over his jeans. He holds out his hand to Mac. “Alex Rafferty.” “Mac McLeod. This is Wyn Morrison.” “Shawn said you guys were looking for the Orcas Wine and Spirits Company. I bought them out a few months ago, but I kept the wine. I’ve also got a lot of imported and domestic bottles from my restaurant in Seattle. What’s your pleasure?” “A cabernet or merlot,” I say, looking out the window. “What a fabulous view.” “Isn’t it? Sometimes it’s downright distracting.” He turns to a row of bottles behind him and studies them for a minute. “Try this Hogue merlot. I think you might like it. If not, we’ll open something else.” “You have a restaurant in Seattle?” Mac asks. “Had.” The little half smile is devastatingly familiar. “I sold it and moved up here lock, stock, and bottles.” He sets two glasses on the bar and pours the deep purple wine in both. “How’s business?” Mac swirls the wine in his glass, sniffs, and tastes it. “So far so good,” Alex says. “It’s fairly quiet right now, but I wanted to have the bugs all worked out before the invasion of the tourists. I hope you’ll come back for dinner sometime. You guys live here?” “Just visiting.” I look over at the hostess station. “Have you got a menu?” “We don’t have printed ones yet. There’s one on the blackboard by the door.” Mac gets up to go read it, and Alex turns to me, leaning on the bar. “Do I know you from someplace?” · 113 ·

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I shake my head. “I didn’t mean to stare at you like that. You just look incredibly like someone I used to work for. Where was your restaurant?” “The Union Café. The north end of Lake Union, near Gasworks Park.” Mac comes back and parks himself beside me, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Since we’re here, we might as well have dinner.” The café is charming—small, but with enough elbow room so that you’re not involuntarily eavesdropping on the next table. The other walls are painted a dark terra-cotta, setting off the plain, crisp white table linens, and candles are everywhere, flickering off mirrors and glassware. A perfect example of maximum effect with minimum furnishings. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the whole back wall is windows overlooking East Sound. The blonde returns to bring us a wine list and recite the menu, and tell us our waiter will be right over. Mac stares out the window at the sky, shot through with gold and pink. Then abruptly he says, “I think I could live here.” “You mean on Orcas Island?” He nods. “It reminds me of—” Our waiter suddenly appears, smiling toothily and asking us if we’ve chosen a wine. “Probably red,” I say. “We liked the Hogue merlot.” “If you liked that, there’s another merlot I think you’d really like. It’s a Canadian wine. Okanagan Valley, in British Columbia. It’s called Burrowing Owl. It’s a bit pricier, but in my opinion it’s worth every cent.” I’m about to tell him that his opinion doesn’t count, since he’s not paying for it, but Mac smiles and says, “Okay, let’s try it.” He doesn’t even ask how much. When the guy goes to dig up the Burrowing Owl, I look at Mac. “Did your Great-uncle Sylvester kick off and leave you his entire estate?” · 114 ·

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He looks sheepish. “I’m practicing to be rich and famous. Besides, I have a bright, shiny, new credit card. Just begging to be run through somebody’s machine.” He looks out the window again while I sit there and fret about how much the wine’s going to cost. Alex brings the bottle himself, and two red-wine goblets. “Great choice,” he says, twisting the corkscrew. That’s restaurantspeak meaning, Thanks for paying this month’s rent. The wine is truly magnificent—round and rich and mouth filling. After one glass I’m so mellow I recall that thing Ben Franklin supposedly said about wine being constant proof that God loves us. I sit there, watching Mac, waiting for him to say more about what the island reminds him of, but he’s apparently already past that. I want to reach over and touch his face. In the reflected light of the candles, his eyes remind me of a piece of rock I once found on a hike. My father said it was a silicate. I just knew that I loved the way the tiny gold facets emerged with geometrical precision from the dull gray rock. He’s got that little patch of perpetual sunburn on his nose, like lifeguards always have. His mouth . . . God, I love his mouth. Kissing it. The thought of where it’s been on my body and how it feels makes me dizzy. Our dinners are beautiful. Mac has medallions of New Zealand lamb with a Dijon crust, and sumptuously artery-clogging scalloped potatoes. I go with seafood, since we’re on an island, even if it’s not local. But it’s so fresh it might as well be—a fat tuna steak, grilled with garlic and herbs just to medium rare. The salad of spring vegetables is local—tiny, perfect squashes, new potatoes the size of your thumb, sugar snap peas and haricots verts—everything fresh and sweet, tossed in a warm hazelnut vinaigrette. Even the bread for each dinner is different. He has buttery whole wheat dinner rolls and I have a chewy peasant bread, rubbed with garlic and bearing the marks of the grill. · 115 ·

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Instead of dessert, we opt for a cheese plate to go with the rest of the expensive-but-worth-every-penny wine. With it comes a little bowl of partially frozen red grapes. When the check comes, he barely looks at it, just pulls out his virginal MasterCard and tucks it inside the folder. I reach for my wallet. “Wyn,” he says, “don’t do this, okay?” His eyes are a warning all by themselves. So I say, “I was just getting my lipstick.”

As we’re climbing into the truck, he looks at the sky. “I want to show you a place I found when I was here last summer. It has an incredible view.” He slams the door, cranks the truck, and we take off down Horseshoe Highway. “Can we see it at night?” He just smiles and turns left past a sign that says PRIVATE ROAD: LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY. “Are we supposed to be here?” “Will you relax? You’re such a good girl.” “And you’re an anarchist.” “Was your father very strict?” I ponder the question. “He never laid a hand on me—I barely remember him even raising his voice. I just never wanted to disappoint him. He could say my name a certain way . . .” The road changes from gravel to dirt and gets narrower. “What was the worst thing you ever did? That he found out about.” The truck hits a king-sized pothole and the top of my head smacks the roof. “Oops, sorry.” I grip the armrest with one hand, massage my head with the other. “Let’s see. Once when I was about ten, CM’s big sister, Katie, dared us to shoplift a lipstick from the drugstore. We did, but then my mother found it and wanted to know where we’d gotten it. Being pathologically honest, I told her. She told my father and he made us go back and confess to the store manager. One at a time, so we · 116 ·

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didn’t have each other for moral support. I was absolutely petrified. I thought for sure we were going to jail.” All I can make out now is a black tangle of trees and headlights disappearing into the dark, but he drives fast. “McLeod, how the hell can you see where you’re going?” “I don’t need to see. This road is in my unconscious memory.” He grins. “So what happened?” “The manager said he wouldn’t call the police this time. He was probably laughing his butt off. Then I went out and CM went in and confessed. The poor guy was probably hoping there were no more gang members involved in the heist so he could get back to work.” When it seems as if there’s nowhere to go except back the way we came, he turns onto another road that’s hardly more than a trail, so narrow that an occasional tree branch slaps the window as we bounce along. Finally he pulls to a stop in a little clearing encircled by tall evergreens and we get out. He unrolls a piece of thick foam rubber in the bed of the pickup, unzips his sleeping bag, and spreads it on top of the foam. “Always prepared.” “I’ve slept a lot of nights in this truck.” He jumps up in back, holds out his hand. We settle in with our backs against the cab. “I thought you said this place had a view.” “Look up,” he says. “Oh . . . my God.” It’s like looking through a big porthole at every star in the universe. You can actually see part of the Milky Way’s river of light. We sit silent; my impulse is to hold my breath because even that seems loud enough to disrupt the moment. A shooting star gleams briefly and vanishes. Another trails it. “What did you start to say at dinner? About what this place reminds you of?” · 117 ·

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He lays his head against the back window. “It reminds me of going to summer camp in upstate New York when I was a kid. I think it’s the light.” “What about it?” “When you’re surrounded by mountains like this, it gets light in the morning before you can see the sun, and then at night, the sun disappears but it’s still daylight. I always felt like it was never going to be dark. Like Alaska in the summer.” I shiver, and he draws me close against his side. “Cold?” “Not really. It’s funny, how I used to hate the cold. It could never be warm enough for me. Now it makes me feel more awake. A lot of things seem different to me now. Like I never thought I’d live anywhere but southern California. I never seriously imagined owning a bakery.” When he turns my face to his, I can’t help wondering if he really wants to kiss me or if he just wants me to stop talking. Either way, it has the same effect. “And, of course,” I say thoughtfully, “I never pictured myself making love in the back of a ’seventy-one El Camino.” He laughs. “You’re shameless. I think that’s my favorite thing about you.”

The hollow drumming of rain on the roof wakes me early Sunday morning. So much for hiking up Mount Constitution. In the kitchen the linoleum is cool and ridged under my feet. I get some orange juice and stand at the sink looking out into the woods. Dripping leaves and needles glow iridescent green against the shiny black of wet bark, and the slate sky seems close enough to touch. I rinse the glass and go back to the bedroom. Mac wakes up long enough to make room for me under the covers and I curl up next to him and drift back to sleep. When I open my eyes again, he’s not in bed. I smell coffee. I pull · 118 ·

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socks over my cold feet and pad into the kitchen. He’s buttering toast, and I stand behind him, resting my face against his back. “Mmm. My favorite morning smell.” “Coffee? Or toast?” “You,” I say. He turns and kisses me. I pull my chef out for a progress check. It’s doubled in volume, soupy and roiling with life. I remember Jean-Marc saying that the wetter the starter, the more sour the bread. I pinch off a piece and put it on my tongue, savoring the vinegary bite. Mac peers over my shoulder. “What’s in it?” “Just flour and water.” “So why is it bubbling?” “Because it’s now home to a passel of potent microoganisms.” “How many microorganisms does it take to make a passel?” “More than you’d care to count. Isn’t it amazing? All they need is a little food and a place to have sex, and they just show up and start reproducing.” “That’s not so amazing. I would do that.” He puts his arms around my waist. “Watching all this unbridled sexual activity makes me horny.” “Well, I’ve never known anyone to actually become aroused while watching a sourdough starter.” I turn and hop up into his arms, wrapping my legs around him. “But I suppose there’s always that first time.”

By the time we get around to breakfast, the toast is cold, so we heat it in the oven. We pull on sweatshirts and eat out on the porch, watching the rain on the meadow and slapping the occasional mosquito. I put down my coffee cup and arrange myself at one end of the love seat, facing him. “We’re going to do an experiment. We’re each · 119 ·

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going to tell one hitherto-unknown fact. About ourselves. No discussing the mating rituals of rainbow trout or anything like that. Okay?” He shifts position slightly. “And what is this experiment designed to prove?” I keep my eyes tight on his. “That we can, and that the seas do not open and swallow us up when we tell about ourselves. Okay?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “I’ll go first. For a long time after my father died, I couldn’t cry.” “What does that feel like?” “It feels a lot like not being able to have an orgasm.” “That bad?” “It’s the same general principle. There’s a buildup of tension and instead of a quick release, it just dissipates, slowly and uncomfortably.” “Sounds kind of unhealthy,” he says. I shrug. “Lots of men never cry. In fact, I have this theory. My theory is that the reason a lot of men are so obsessed with sex is because they can’t cry.” “What?” “It’s their only release.” “Well, my theory is that the reason a lot of men are so obsessed with sex is that they’re not getting any.” “I think my theory is much more interesting. Okay, now you have to tell me something.” “I flunked senior English.” “Bullshit.” He laughs. “Okay, I got an incomplete. I had to go back after graduation and make it up before they’d give me my diploma.” “Not a very interesting fact, McLeod.” “You didn’t say it had to be interesting. You want to know why I got an incomplete?” “No.” I take a sip of coffee. “I want to know about your brother.” · 120 ·

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“That’s not a fact about me,” he says evenly. “Yeah, I think it is.” A shadow passes over his face, like the smallest ripple on a still pond. “What about him?” “All about him. Name, age, occupation, where he lives . . . the usual stuff.” He sighs. “Kevin Douglas McLeod. Born January 12, 1956.” “What does he look like?” “Nothing like me.” “You’ll have to do better than that.” “He looks like a football player. Which he was. In high school.” He lays his arm along the back of the love seat. “Remember the day we had breakfast at Steve’s . . . those two little boys fighting over the crayons?” “Of course. I distinctly remember you taking on that vicious seven-year-old.” “That vicious seven-year-old was Kevin.” “So, what does he do? For a living, I mean, and is he married? Does he have kids? Where is he?” “We haven’t talked in a long time.” He stands up. “You want some more coffee?” “What I want is for you to tell me why you always get that deer in the headlights look whenever I ask about your brother. Why you don’t have any pictures—not one single photograph of him. Or your father. Or Suzanne.” For a minute he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at me. Finally he sits back down. “Kevin was handsome. Smart. He was a great football player. President of his class. He made it all look easy. Girls. They were always calling the house. Suzanne used to get so pissed.” “But, all this stuff is so . . . trivial. There’s life after high school, you know. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe if you just called him—you know, just to say hi or—” · 121 ·

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“He’s dead.” His voice is quiet and flat and almost relieved. “Kevin’s dead.” I swallow my coffee and wait for it to find its way down. “When?” “1974.” “But you said—” I stop, realizing how stupid it would sound. But you said he was a lawyer. “He was only eighteen? What happened?” He puts the coffee cup to his mouth, then realizes it’s empty. When he sets it down, the table tilts toward its shortest leg. “It was on a Friday night, the last football game of the year. There was a party afterward. He was a senior; I was a junior. Everybody was drinking. On the way home . . . there was an accident. This guy in a van ran the red light. Kevin was killed instantly.” “Oh, Mac.” I feel so stupid, but I can’t think of anything else to say. “She had all these big plans for him.” “Your mother?” He nods. “I don’t think she ever forgave me.” “For what?” “For being the one who walked away with a broken arm.” “For God’s sake, didn’t the two of you ever talk about it?” “Not much. By the time I graduated from high school, she was living in her bedroom with a bottle of vodka.” “I don’t know what to say. I’m really . . . so sorry. But why didn’t you just tell me? All those times when I asked about him? About her?” “It’s not something I talk about.” “Why?” He shrugs slightly, not looking at me. “I don’t know why. I guess I just never felt like explaining it. Going through the whole . . .” He waits for the right word, but it doesn’t come. “It was easier to make up a story. Maybe after a while I started to halfway believe it myself. I honestly don’t know.” “How terrible. You must have been—” My voice falters. “I don’t know.” Now he looks in my direction, but his focus is · 122 ·

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somewhere beyond me. “The thing is, in my head I’m still having the same stupid arguments with him. That’s the hardest part. There’s no resolution. We can’t just have it out.” “Things don’t always get resolved even when everybody’s present in the same room. You know that.” When I reach for his hand, he stands up again. “True.” He walks to the porch rail and stands there watching the meadow grass nod under the soft rain. Then abruptly he turns back. “Much as I hate to say it, we better get packed up and get down to the ferry landing.” “Mac, come on. You can’t just turn it off.” “Yes, I can. And I have to. I shouldn’t have told you.” I look at him, stunned. “But I think you’d have to tell someone. You can’t walk around with something like that stuffed down inside you.” He leans against the porch rail. “There’s a common misconception that you can focus on one terrible thing and say, this is it. This is the problem. You speak its name and acknowledge it, and you set yourself free. But that’s not how it works. What happens is, you let it out and it’s . . . like opening Pandora’s box.” He pushes off the rail. “And now we really need to go. I’m working tonight.”

The drive back to Seattle is gray and depressing. He puts on a tape of really funky blues—the singers all sound like ninety-year-old black men with no teeth and I can’t understand any of the lyrics— to discourage any further conversation, I’m sure. It works just fine. Then, just as we cross the line into King County, I realize that I didn’t bring the chef. My starter. I put it in the refrigerator to slow down the yeast, intending to pull it out at the last minute, but in our rush to get to the ferry, I forgot it. · 123 ·

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o he silence between us fills up the week. Finally, on Friday, he calls. “I thought you’d like to know that Roz had the baby Tuesday. Seven pounds, three ounces and her name is Sarah.” “Oh. That’s great. When will they be home?” “Today, I think.” “Maybe we could go by and see her this weekend.” “Sure.” “I was thinking about coming down to Bailey’s on Saturday night—about ten?” “Sure.”

T

I look into my mug of rapidly cooling tea. Half full, I remind myself, not half empty. Still warm, not almost cold. Mac pulls a chair out with his foot and sits down, setting two steaming mugs on the table. It’s Saturday night, actually Sunday morning. Bailey’s is closed, Mac and Kenny have cleaned up, shut down, locked the money in the safe. Now Kenny has gone home to Roz and baby Sarah, the

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shutters are closed, and the room’s only light comes from the fire and the one lamp hanging over the table where we’re sitting. “I put honey in yours.” He looks at the fire. I’ve been here since about ten-thirty, drinking wine, switching to tea when my head started to buzz. I pull the spoon out of my mug, still smoothly coated with thick, golden honey. I watch it drip off the end, then stir it again. I look up at him. We’ve crossed the border now, Mac and I. We’re in a different territory and there’s no going back. It’s like being on a jury when the judge tells you to disregard some piece of evidence that’s been presented. I wanted information and I got it. But I also got the emotional carry-on baggage. The genuine easiness of being with him has been replaced by a sort of forced lightness in which we both carefully avoid acknowledging that I now know what I know. He reaches for my hand, but it’s an automatic gesture. His mind is elsewhere. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Sure. Why?” “Well, for one thing, everytime I ask you a question these days, you say, ‘Sure.’ ” “I’m just tired.” “Tired of what?” He gives me a sharp look. “Not of anything. Just tired. I haven’t slept much the last couple of nights. Don’t make something out of nothing.” I want to ask why he’s not sleeping, but it doesn’t seem like a safe line of inquiry. Suddenly I can’t think of anything that is safe to say to him, and the space yawns between us like the Grand Canyon. “I guess I don’t understand you sometimes.” He smiles. “It’s just that we have different ways of dealing with the fact that the universe is sliding inexorably into chaos.” “Can you please just stop this?” I fold my arms on the table and · 125 ·

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rest my forehead on them. I just want to go home, go to bed, make love, fall asleep with his arms around me. “Stop what?” “This defense thing that you do. Don’t you ever let your hands down?” My voice is muffled in my sweatshirt. “Don’t you ever get tired of trying to fix me?” I sit up quickly. “I’m not trying to fix you. I’m trying to understand you.” “Why do you need to understand me?” Because I love you, stupid. No, I don’t actually say it. Mrs. Morrison didn’t raise no dummies. But when I look at him, I know he sees it, as clearly as if it were tattooed on my forehead. The lamp hanging over the table seems to swing in a barely perceptible arc, picking up some minute tremor, an earthquake too small to feel. He pulls me out of the chair and onto his lap. He unfastens my hair, loosens it with his fingers, and I rest my cheek against his forehead. We sit like that for a long time. I don’t know how long, but long enough for the fire to completely burn away into a bed of papery ash and a few red coals. He just holds me, breathing into my hair and not saying anything.

Sunday is a heartbreakingly beautiful spring day. Our first stop is the bakery to pick up a box of cream scones with currants, and triberry muffins, to take over to Roz and Kenny’s house in Green Lake. The baby smell hits you as soon as the door opens. Kenny looks like he’s been up all night, which he probably has. Red eyed, unshaven, shoeless, shirttail out, burp rag on his shoulder. “Welcome to Babyland.” He smiles weakly, but perks up when Mac hands him the bakery box. “I’ll go put some coffee on. The queen and the princess are in the living room.” · 126 ·

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Roz, looking tired but serene, is propped against a pillow, feet up, adrift in a sea of pastel blankets and stuffed toys. Curled up on her stomach is a small, pink-swathed bundle. All I can see of the baby is a face the size of a latte cup, tiny perfect nose, lashless eyelids, the miniature rosebud mouth puckered in sleep and sporting a delicate tracery of drool. “Lady Madonna.” Mac grins and kisses the top of her head. I kneel down for a better view of Sarah. “Damn, girlfriend, you do good work.” I run the back of my index finger over the impossibly soft cheek. “How are you feeling?” “Oh, tired. Sore. Happy. Stupid.” “Why stupid?” Mac lays my jeans jacket over the back of a club chair and sits down. “ ’Cause you don’t find out what all you don’t know about babies till you get one.” Kenny comes in from the kitchen carrying a plate mounded with scones and muffins in one hand and four coffee mugs in the other. He pushes a stack of books by Dr. Spock and Barry Braselton to the end of the coffee table with his foot and sets the load down. Mac laughs. “Nice trick. What else can you do?” Kenny sighs. “I have the feeling I’m gonna find out.” “Oh, listen to you.” Roz rolls her eyes. “I’m the one who has to get up for every feeding.” “Thank God I don’t have the equipment.” Her laugh changes to a grimace. “Owie. My stitches still hurt. Honey, you don’t have to wear the burp rag when you’re not holding her.” “Hey, this is my medal of honor.” He pats his shoulder. “It proves I’ve been through the baby wars. No way am I taking it off.” He heads back to the kitchen and we hear the buzz of the coffee grinder. Sarah’s pale eyelids twitch minutely. “She does that a lot,” Roz says. “I think she’s dreaming. Like a puppy.” “Which was harder,” I ask, “having the baby or training the husband?” · 127 ·

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She grins. “Having the baby was a piece of cake.” She twists a little against the pillow. “Honey, can you come take her so I can visit the comfort station?” “Yup,” Kenny hollers back. “Just let me get the coffee started.” “Give her to me.” I surprise myself with the realization that I can’t wait to hold her. “Oh thanks, Wyn. Here, just lean back and I’ll . . .” Sleeping Sarah lies on my shoulder like a small, warm beanbag, smelling of baby powder and milk. Her fist is curled up next to her mouth, thumb slightly extended, as if she’s practicing to hitch a ride. Kenny arrives with the sugar and cream. He grins when he sees me. “Uh-oh. Looks like a natural to me.” Mac doesn’t laugh. When Roz returns from the bathroom, I hand Sarah back. My shoulder feels empty and a little cold. Probably due to the tiny spot of drool on my shirt. We pass a pleasant hour of scones and coffee and Sarah stories. Kenny shows us the nursery, all pink and white, painted with fairytale characters. Roz opens the present I brought, a yellow terry-cloth sleeper with a duck pocket and webbed feet. We talk about having brunch when the initial flurry of confusion and novelty settles down. Then Mac stands up. “Well, we should get going.” “No need to rush off,” Kenny says, but he yawns as he lets us out the door. Mac takes my hand as we walk down the brick steps. “How about a ferryboat ride?” “Okay.” When I turn my head to look at him, I can still smell Sarah on my shoulder.

The mountain is out. That’s what the locals say on days like today when Rainier looks close enough to touch. I love the way it appears · 128 ·

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to hover, unattached, over the water, white cap of snow shimmering in the sun like a mirage. Tourists run around with their point-andshoot cameras, snapping it from every angle, while the natives exchange sly smiles. They know that on days like this you can shoot a whole roll from any angle, using any exposure, but if you don’t have a polarizing filter, the tricks of light and haze will render the mountain as invisible as a vampire in a mirror. He puts his arm across my shoulders and pulls me closer. We’ve hardly exchanged half a dozen sentences since we left Kenny and Roz. Actually, since we left Bailey’s last night. Now I’m wondering what he’s thinking, he’s wondering what I’m thinking—or not. He hangs over the rail, staring down at the water, while I lean my back against it, watching a group of teenage girls pretend they’re not watching a group of teenage boys. “Mac . . .” “Hmm?” “Did you send the manuscript to any other agents?” The silence becomes even more silent. Then he says, “One.” “Have you heard from him?” “Her.” “Whatever. Have you heard anything?” “No.” Pause. “I’m sort of hungry. How are we fixed for lunch money?” Anger rises in my throat. I want to shake him, and I would if I thought it would make any difference. I push myself off the rail and start to walk away, but he takes my arm and pulls me back, holding me. “I’m sorry. Look, I know you’re trying to help. But I just can’t—” One long and two short blasts of the ferry’s horn signal our arrival and the end of the conversation. We merge with the crowd moving down the ramp to the terminal. At Winslow Way we turn left, passing the first small shops, the carts selling ice cream and espresso. · 129 ·

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First stop, as always, is Eagle Harbor Books. We browse the new fiction shelves and Mac buys a softcover copy of Shout!, a history of the Beatles that he finds on a bargain table. I purposely left my credit card at home so I couldn’t buy anything, but by fishing out dollar bills and foraging for quarters in the pockets of our jackets and jeans, we come up with enough to have lunch at the Streamliner Diner.

He leans back as the waitress sets down our food. His eyes go from the plate to me, then out the window, then back to the plate. He waits till I have a mouthful of grilled cheese, and then he says, “I’m going to Alaska on Wednesday.” In the tone of voice you might use for mentioning that you have a dentist appointment or the car needs new shocks. The melted cheese seems to congeal, gluing my mouth shut. A coldness floods my chest, and my heart sinks into it. I swallow. “You mean Wednesday as in next Wednesday?” Understanding comes in a rush. All the work he had done on the truck. The new tapes he’s been making. The new credit card. And, yes, even the trip to Orcas. It wasn’t about making me feel better. It was about making him feel less guilty. My eyes are approaching dangerously high levels of saltwater. I look off to the side so it won’t be obvious, but I feel my chin tremble. I swallow very big and realize he’s still talking. “I was going to tell you when we went to Orcas, but then you wanted to know all about Kevin . . .” Right. So it’s my fault that I’m just finding out three days before blastoff. In the middle of the Streamliner Diner. I grope for my purse like a blind person, still not looking at him, and when I feel the worn leather strap in my palm, I stand up. I can’t breathe. If I don’t get outside right now, I might implode. “Wyn, wait a minute . . .” · 130 ·

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His voice submerges in the noise of other conversations, silverware clanking against plates, plastic glasses tapping against worn Formica, the scrape of chairs and the squeak of waitresses’ rubbersoled shoes. Halfway to the door I remember that I have the money for lunch. I dig in the purse for my wallet, turn, and throw it at him. I hear the thwack as it hits something—maybe his hand—and the coin compartment opens, sending change rolling and bouncing all over the linoleum floor. There’s a momentary lull in the noise of the room, and I remember the first night at his apartment, how the change from his pockets went rolling all over the floor. The door bangs shut behind me. I turn right, walking briskly down the street that runs along the side of the diner to a little park on the water. I’m sucking in air as if I were drowning. The lump is gone from my throat; now it’s resting under my breastbone, painful and dense. I sit down on a vacant picnic table with my feet on the bench. There are people all around—kids with their jeans rolled up, shrieking in the icy chill of the shallow water, couples drinking coffee out of Starbucks cups, a white-haired woman dozing over an open book. But they’re all background, like television with the sound turned off. A Sunfish tacks across the cove, trying to sail into the wind—I think it’s called a close haul. She’s beating back and forth across the water, not making much headway. I know just how that feels. He sits down next to me and puts a paper bag on the table. “It’s not you. It’s me.” He hands me my wallet. “Do they have seminars for this? Breaking up 101? Is that where you guys learn all these great lines?” “Don’t get dramatic. We’re not breaking up. This is just something I need to do.” “Right. The old Babe-I-gotta-leave-you-the-highway’s-callingbullshit-blues.” When I look at him, I can hardly see him, the sun is in my eyes. “Would you please go away now?” “Wyn . . .” He puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. · 131 ·

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“I want you to get away from me. Please. Now.” He sighs. “I’ll call you later.” He turns and walks back up to the street, boots crunching in the sand and gravel. I sit there for a long time, watching the sailboat.

When I get back to the apartment, CM’s sprawled on the couch with a pile of Dance! magazines on her stomach. She looks up when I shut the door. “What’s up?” I take off my jacket and drape it over the back of a dining-room chair. “Mac’s going to Alaska.” She licks her thumb and flips a few pages, frowning. “When?” “Wednesday.” All in one graceful motion she sits up, letting the magazines slide onto the couch, pivots her perfect buns, and puts her feet on the floor. “You mean like . . . this Wednesday?” I sit down next to her and slouch back against the cushions. “Does it ever seem to you like it’s just one big, revolving door? And if someone’s trajectory happens to coincide with yours, you get to go around a few times together before they go spinning off one way and you go hurtling off somewhere else?” “Yeah, sometimes it does.” She pats my knee. “But, honestly? I don’t think this is one of those times.” “I don’t know. It kinda looks like the ride into the sunset to me.” I stare out the window. “I wish I was more like you.” She laughs. “No kidding. From my perspective, any guy who can do intelligent conversation, not bore me with his life story, make incredible love to me till I yodel, and then disappear for a few months would be just about perfect.” “I think I knew it was coming, and I kept acting like it wasn’t.” “Would you really have done anything differently?” · 132 ·

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“I don’t know. Probably not. I’m such a masochist.” “Take a deep breath and relax.” I take a deep breath, but I can’t relax. When she stretches her arms up to the ceiling, she looks like a Modigliani woman, tall and lithe. “I’m going to go get the car washed and buy some groceries. Want to come with?” I get up and move over to the window seat, letting my eyes find the blue water. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just stay here and sulk.”

I watch the sun drop behind the jagged purple ridge of the Olympics, ferryboat lights twinkling in the rosy dusk. I keep hoping I’ll be seized by the urge to get up off my butt and fix some dinner or scrub the bathroom, or maybe just turn on a lamp. But so far, nothing’s happening. When I hear the door open, I think it’s CM, but when I look up, there he is. “Can we talk?” he says. “Apparently not. Seems like every time we do lately, something bad happens.” He takes a few steps closer, but I turn back to the window. “Wyn, I know I should have told you sooner. There just never seemed to be a good time, and I didn’t want to upset you.” I laugh. It’s a loose sound, kind of crazed. “You didn’t give a rat’s ass if I got upset, as long as you didn’t have to hang around and deal with it.” “I’m sorry.” He’s got that look on his face. The one men always get when you need to talk about feelings and the future and your relationship. They look like they’d rather be having bamboo splinters jammed under their toenails. He sits down facing me and holds both my hands. I make myself look at him. · 133 ·

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“Is this about Kevin?” “No. Not at all—” “Because I’m sorry it made you so sad talking about it. I just felt like something was wrong with that whole—” “You were right. Something is wrong. But it’s always been wrong and it always will be wrong, and there’s nothing I can do about that except try not to let it make me crazy. Look, Wyn . . .” He lets go of my hands and leans back against the wall, turning his face to me. “This isn’t easy to explain, but I’ll try. All my life, whenever things get . . . strange like this, when I need to think, to decide what to do . . . then I have to get away somewhere. It’s just the way I’m wired. It’s not about you—” “You made it about me. By shutting me out. Ignoring my feelings. You don’t tell me what’s going on with you. You just announce that you’re leaving. In three days. How did you think I’d take it?” “I knew you’d be upset. I was going to tell you last weekend, but then we got off on the Kevin thing—” “So we’re only allowed one difficult topic per weekend?” “I’m just not good at . . . this.” “At what?” I hug my knees in closer. “At being with anyone. I’m too used to being on my own.” He closes his eyes. “This sounds bad, doesn’t it?” “Worse than bad.” “I’m sorry. This whole thing with the manuscript is just—” “Why the hell don’t you just call the guy? He’s had more than enough time to get back to you. And if he—” “Wyn.” He looks sort of sad, sort of embarrassed. “He got back to me.” “When?” “About a month ago.” “A month—why didn’t you tell me?” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t even think about it.” · 134 ·

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“For God’s sake, tell me what he said!” “He wanted me to make all these changes. Not just little line edits. Major structural changes. He wanted me to rewrite it in first person, he wanted—” “So what did you say to him?” This is like extracting wisdom teeth. “Nothing.” “You can’t say nothing. You have to talk to him.” “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m not changing it. Not like that.” Suddenly I understand. This is something he was not prepared for. “He probably doesn’t expect you to cop to every single thing. Why don’t you let me read it? We could go over it together, make some notes—” “Don’t. Please don’t. I know you want to help, but you can’t.” “I can’t believe you didn’t even tell me.” “He obviously thought it was crap—” “Oh, stop it! If he’d thought it was crap, he would’ve sent you back a form letter that said, ‘Dear Author, Thanks for your submission. We are sorry that it does not suit our needs at the present time.’ He would have put it through his paper shredder or used it to light his barbecue grill or to line his parakeet’s cage. He wouldn’t have taken the time to read it, write back, give you suggestions if he didn’t think there was something there.” When I finally stop talking, the silence is so absolute that it’s as if I’ve gone deaf. A few excruciating minutes pass while we look at each other, and I think that any second now we’ll start speaking the same language. The street lights blink on abruptly, glowing a pale yellow-green in the dusk. I clear my throat. “Maybe you should just try some of his ideas.” “Not now.” He shakes his head. “I can’t write anything now. I’ve been staring at blank pages every night this week.” He gets up, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “For the last five years, it’s like I’ve had blinders on. All I could see was finishing. Now it’s · 135 ·

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finished. So . . .” He tries to laugh. “Maybe I’ll just be the world’s greatest bartender.” “There’s nothing wrong with that. If that’s what you want.” “That’s just it. I don’t know. I thought I knew what I was working for, but obviously . . .” He exhales. “I just need some time.” “But why Alaska? Can’t you just go up to Orcas? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to show up and distract you.” I hate myself for this. It sounds like begging. “I don’t know how to explain it any better. I’m sorry. I should have told you before.” “Well.” I stand up, too, and when I inhale there’s an awful leaden dullness in my chest. “I guess this is it, then.” “Can I see you before I go?” “Why?” “Because I want to. Don’t you?” “It’s too hard.” How can you love someone and want to tap-dance on his face at the same time? “I’ll be back by Labor Day,” he says. “A lot can happen,” I manage around the knot in my throat. “Don’t expect to find me standing on the veranda waving my lace hankie.” I try not to kiss him back when he kisses me, but I can’t help it. In fact, what I really want to do is get him in a headlock and wrestle him to the floor and sit on his chest till he explains everything to my satisfaction or I talk him out of going, whichever comes first. I’ve always been a physical kind of girl. My second choice would be enough anger to carry me till he’s gone. I could throw things, slam doors, break glass. Instead, after he leaves the key on the coffee table and walks out the door, I sit down on the couch and hug the cushion and cry. I still can’t believe he didn’t tell me about the manuscript. · 136 ·

part two

o

. ten .

o Mac rosby, Stills and Nash are getting to the point where they’re no fun anymore. Probably because he’s listened to the tape three times in a row. He turns it off and sits drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and listening to the hiss and swipe of the windshield wipers. There’s a long line waiting to cross into Canada, bored-looking men in businesslike sedans, and station wagons full of unsmiling families whose vacation plans are washing away in this late-spring storm. There are some pickup trucks, sure. Mostly the big, muscled trucks, wet fenders gleaming like the flanks of Clydesdales, huge, bristling tires and trailer hitches that look like they could pull half of Washington state across the border. But none like the Elky. A few heads turn as he inches closer to the row of booths with the green arrows and flashing red lights. The border agent is prim mouthed, her black hair pulled severely back, like a caricature of a librarian. He hands over his passport. “How long will you be in Canada?” “Just long enough to get to Alaska.” “Is this a business or pleasure trip?”

C

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“Pleasure.” It sounds odd when he says it. Like something from a Victorian erotic novel. “Any firearms or agricultural products?” “No.” She looks at the bed of the Elky. “What’s in back? Under the tarpaulin?” “Clothes. Books. Camping gear.” “Moving to Alaska?” “No.” She hands him back the passport with a sheet of white paper tucked inside. “Park over there, please, sir.” She nods at a yellowstriped corridor of blacktop off to the right. “And take these forms to customs. That building just to your left.” In the overheated room that smells of wet wool, a tall, gaunt man with thinning brown hair takes the forms. His badge says “Geoffrey MacComber.” “What are you carrying?” “Clothes. Books. Camping gear.” “Not good weather for camping.” He runs his thumb and forefinger across his upper lip as if he’s recalling a mustache that used to be there. “Hopefully, that will change.” His smile is more like a grimace. “Oh, it will. Eventually. Is the gear new?” “Actually, it’s very old.” “I’m going to need a listing of everything in the truck.” He pushes a pen across the worn counter and stands, shifting his weight and drinking oily-looking coffee while Mac writes on the personaleffects form everything he can remember packing. Then the customs man sighs, as if he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, shrugs into his drab green rain slicker. “Well, let’s go have a look.” The door rattles shut behind them. His face brightens when he sees the Elky. “Ah. Nice truck, 1973, eh?” · 140 ·

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“Seventy-one.” The inspection is cursory, lasting just long enough to ensure that everything under the tarp gets wet. Then it’s back inside, finish the paper shuffling, signing, stamping, stapling. He hands over a copy. “Drive safely, Mr. McLeod.” In Tsawwassen he stops for coffee, and debates taking a ferry to Salt Spring or one of the other Gulf Islands. To Victoria, and then messing around on Vancouver Island for a few days. But the rain doesn’t show any sign of stopping, and he decides to head east, into the mountains. It’ll be colder, but probably dry, and he can sleep stretched out in the tent instead of sitting up in the Elky’s cab. When he tosses the empty cup into the conveniently located garbage receptacle, he swears he can hear her voice. Styrofoam can’t be recycled, McLeod. For a few seconds he eyes the pay phone next to the coffee bar and actually considers calling her, but she’s probably asleep, with the phone unplugged. And if she was awake, and she did answer, what the hell would he say?

British Columbia resembles nothing so much as one of those folding strings of postcards, twisting and winding and snagging the traveler in its gorgeous panoramas. But he drives almost without seeing, up Highway 99 through the spectacular alpine scenery of Garibaldi Provincial Park, past the blue, glacial lakes, the shores crowded with fir and spruce, the meadows still patched with snow. He thinks about stopping in Whistler for lunch, but it reminds him too much of Vail, with its fake-Swiss-village architecture and expensive shops. The road is good, and the sun’s still shining at eightthirty P.M. when he pulls into a campground just outside of Lillooet. In the cluttered office, he pays for a tent site. “Right on the river,” the jovial host tells him. “Place is pretty much · 141 ·

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yours tonight. By the way, the pool’s heated, if you’re so inclined.” He sets up the tent and wanders around the campground, which is all but deserted this early in the season. “C